Embrace him, he’s the new death, the
One we’re waiting on under this
Fecund fall of sweet dead leaves
And broken branches covering
Tracks into the middle before
Emerging out the other side.
Coffee’s on me if we make it.
There’s a Starbucks on the corner.
Death is an end of possibilities
and a beginning of all fictions
though the living often fear
reveling in this potential.
Good manners trump unabashed ego
save for the occasional syphilitic philosopher
or errant office “careerist”.
The edge doesn’t exist; it bleeds
In torrents as we hover like
Meat in the sandwich subjected
To physics and whims, dolor and
Perfidy, yet our claws, despite
Our gnawing still click clack where the
World stops like bullets popping
And reach back with the slightest hope.
A mix of words and fear balloons
In your belly like before school,
Now before work, excuses that
Swallow air, hold your breath, contain
Shame and worthlessness roiling
Like a geyser or a secret
Worn on a face you think hidden
As staring down, you exhale.
Inscrutability is a
Craft, not just a passion I say
Feeding the card reader at the
Parking garage, waiting for the
Gate to lift, a Midway con in
Reverse, like taking best of five
In tic tac toe against yourself.
Do you have any cash on you?
The video buffers
What are you waiting for?
On your phone for chrissakes!