Touts may tempt you,
To don rose-colored glasses,
Shouting:
“We can help you draw,
The finest lines,
With no more glare.
Blot out all aberrations,
Lock them out,
So that the spectrum is laid bare.”
Beware of blinders,
There is no one-size-fits-all approach,
To perception.
Light ricochets,
Unpredictably,
But without the full range,
You cannot expect,
Clear sight.
Seven mallard ducks flew in the familiar v-shaped formation they take when coming from or going to far-off places.
The land they cast shadows on grew more and more sparse the further they traversed.
“What a spring this has been,” the Second Lieutenant said with pride, he was sick that day.
The group was well-fed and riding high.
“I know,” piped the First Lieutenant enthusiastically, “I even got some french fries!”
At the apex of the V, the Colonel glanced at the Lieutenant Colonel incredulously.
“Love those things,” said the Captain.
“Guys, watch yourself out here,” sounded the Lieutenant Colonel.
“Yeah, humans were handing out bread like it was going out of fashion,” said the omega male, no one acknowledged him.
The leader stayed silent.
“We had the park all to ourselves! It was a great spring,” said the Major
There was a whooshing sound, then a smack.
The captain looked behind him, shed contour feathers twirled in the vortex of displaced air.
“Well,” the Colonel said, “seems like our idle chit-chat got our Second Lieutenant eaten by a peregrine falcon,” he said in monotone, “let’s try to keep our mouths shut for a little while, huh?”
It turns out,
Saying “don’t be nervous,”
Is a great way,
To be counterproductive.
Fear is self-sabotage,
And more often than not,
Fired in an unexpected,
Barrage.
Like a bull in a china shop,
It raises hell,
And won’t stop,
Prancing,
And dancing all over,
Your most precious,
Fabergé eggshells.
The floor,
Wasn’t a great place,
To put those,
If I’m being honest.
But that’s not important,
Anymore,
Because it’s time to acknowledge,
These animals in the room.
Quick,
Go get some tweezers,
And glue,
While I patch up,
The kicked-down door,
So no more,
Come through.
I’ve built you up quite a bit,
And I’m finding it harder and harder,
To leave than ever before.
If I could see in here,
I’d find unwound wires,
That cross-cross the cracks,
In the concrete,
And trickles of tap water,
That run down your façade.
But being off-the-grid,
Has it’s own advantages-
If walls could talk,
They’d tell you that,
We reach high here,
In spite of what we’re missing.
No sunrise goes unseen,
People stand on their balconies,
With nothing,
And also everything they need.
In trying times,
deep down inside —
you will find that
you are, indeed,
strengthened by division.
To rouse the energy,
to walk to the kitchen,
you must first
burn some molecular bridges.
Not to worry,
it won’t be painful,
the connections themselves,
were tenuous at best.
Throw the planks,
into that churning,
eternally burning,
internal furnace
of yours.
Congratulations,
you have metabolized.
Now you can take action,
or perform mundane tasks,
whichever comes first.
Sudden unbelievable stress,
Has proven too much,
For two-halves,
Of a whole.
“I-I thought I had it,”
The subsided end stammered,
Visibly panicking.
“Look at this mess you’ve made,”
Said the hanging wall,
Haranguing,
His peer.
There was much tension,
So aftershocks,
Seemed likely.
“That’s easy for you to say,”
Said the footwall,
“You’re in no position to judge,”
Feeling their grip,
Slightly budge.
“This is aggravating,”
Said the risen end,
“This is strenuous,”
Their continued harmony,
Seemed tenuous.
They continued,
To point fingers,
As one side fled,
To bury it’s head,
And the other,
Bottled it up,
For a future,
Outburst.
The ceiling,
Had an impromptu,
Skylight,
And fluffy, pink,
Fiberglass tufts,
Showed through,
Holes in the drywall.
The driveway had huge crevices,
From the refreezing,
Ice-cleavers,
That come and go,
With each Winter.
A flexing frame,
Made vascular,
By tunneling termites,
And shifts,
Caused by cracks,
In the foundation.
The whole thing,
Collapsed eventually,
Without warning,
When no one was looking.
Decomposition,
Can drag on,
For years at a time,
Then destruction,
Finishes,
In an instant.
3:18 A.M.,
And the conditioned air,
Is frigid,
To the inside,
Of my nose.
But it’s sweltering,
Underneath,
This duvet,
And I can’t find,
The right position,
To be in.
I lie on my back,
Then turn my head,
And face the wall.
Every time,
I close my eyes,
I can hear the wind blow,
Every few seconds or so.
I stand up,
Throwing off my covers,
To put on,
A sweatshirt.
I sit on the green lawn chair,
On the porch,
Feeling,
The calming breezes,
Come by.
I blink,
Between breaths,
And awaken at,
5:41 in the morning.
Picking up the pieces,
Of past events,
And reassembling them,
To make sense,
Of the occurrences.
Predictions,
On the trajectory,
Of a rocket,
Aimed at open sky,
Which is harder to hit,
Than you’d expect.
The finely-sharpened,
Somewhat dark art,
Of getting from the business-end,
To the destination,
And vice versa-
And how best to deliver it.
Chaos does not necessarily travel in straight lines,
But there is some order,
In the ways,
Of disarray.
Achtung!
Use with caution,
You could rupture,
The sky,
Flatten,
Your house,
Or put,
An eye out.
The handle is too short,
And it looks a tad tacky,
It’s head is made of lead,
And Loki,
Keeps scheming,
To steal it away.
But,
Credit where credit is due,
It works wonders,
Holds great power,
And can still be seen,
Today.
It still rings true,
They don’t make them,
Like they used to.
The File Pile 