Wednesday, February 18, 2015

32 years a slave

i was once a slave to the past, to a dead, broken system-the highfives
and sidenudgings of others-and it was killing me. Thanks to time,
strong meds, and the kindly touch of angels in my daily life, i have
come to focus instead on the future, touching it like a spatout wad of
chewing gum, shaping it, little by little-beneficially, as love itself
is a prevailing mist, the papermill stink settling over my burg. I
worry not about rewards that will be given when im dead, heaven and
hell. Those are bridges i will cross when i get there, because for
now im busy being a light bulb. -3 years a journeyman

Sunday, February 15, 2015

rites of the muse: spring catharsis

as the spring catharsis approaches, with the muse at a terrifying
apogee to the human heart, i feel the weight of my feet, the tide of
aging in my very cells, and a pleasant nether pleasure, like a
prostate massage-the kind of pressure a fat person gets in the private
region when inward-directed pressure is applied, but the result would
make me ashamed, i guess. I guess. Who needs groundhog day when weve
got the spring catharsis?