FOOLS RUSH IN

The past like fallen trees,
silent deeps and pretended
coherence to gallimaufries.

West wind at my back
tracking each step
away from monoliths

stumbling with child-like
wonder, alone from stage
to stage, dragging my heels.

So, waiting is waiting and
something is ending
at an end or has ended.

So, send in the clowns
where are the clowns, those
lovable, laughable clowns

quick send in the clowns!
Oh wait, don’t bother
as I look around, we are here.

TERMINATOR

What target are we missing
with finger paint – red, blue,
gold and green – at what point
to attach a line and which
anchor do we all inevitably
swing round until we rest
for a beat at a bar, full
stop asking the other to open
outwards, broad shoulders
or not, the burden we imagine
for you, which you employ us
to imagine is too great for words.

FINAL DESTINATION

Not just not
allowed to say:

all things disappear
or decay at night

decoys for thinking
stars and moons and

invisible cantilevers
for desire works

best in a vacuum
not just not

able to let privilege
manifest physically

our shirts and pants earned
and shoes and shorts patented

and dresses and skirts folded
and upholstery and costumes
and curtains end scene

BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

Is it really so precious that
even avoiding the pitfalls of totality
threatens to destabilize your pants?

What arrogant centre watches
all the peaches decompose
until we’re left with just pits?

Which reckoning materializes
before we can make the front of the line
at our local, independent grocer?

Why squander such ambivalent
activisim over a couple of guilty
pleasure lattes during baby yoga?

SISTER ACT 2

Weep for me who
Cannot weep for me,
I am image and words
And you are the words:
Flesh and blood,
Wounds and scars.

This many unresisted
Scripts that wept,
Turning victory hands
Into against them or
Us, either way it’s
Thumbs up for curtains.

WEEKEND AT BERNIE'S

Some generous plants --
apples, flowers, opulent
roses and collectible
breezes, we surmise
as being articulable
or welcomed to strive.

Our shrine entombed
in the idea of anarchy
where we all wait and
pretend we just don’t want.

CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF

When we can’t strive further,
get angry. How are you to know
we move where salt is in water,
an horizon to shatter. A fine breeze
what can deceive, we trust what
belies truth, a subjective argument
and we lose all the ways in which
we thought we were winning, trails
up and into the mountains we named.

We cry new currency, the tin coins
bouncing off whatever hot roof and
then molten. A slam, a breeze, shut
doors. We can’t settle down or else
we’ve gotten ourselves, we can’t move
around or else we owe ourselves
so much money. What’s a transgressive
non-localized decentered becoming to do
in the age of wearing targets
we are all trained to hit?

ROBOCOP 4

Within each metal chest,
from within one to one
and then to the rest, from
within each market, a
centre sleeps on the sofa
and calls it a couch, from
each metal hope chest or
security deposit box, add
autotune to the song and
hope to find whatever
you value still alive inside.