An odd, viscous concoction,
Consisting mostly of water,
Amino acids,
Sugars,
Vitamins,
And other nutrients,
Served up,
Neat,
In a queen cup.
One protein,
Royalactin,
Gives aspiring queen’s,
Political careers,
Traction.
They feast,
Learn etiquette,
Mature,
And leave,
To settle-down,
Fill power vacuums,
And form factions.
It was a bad time
to reflect
on what I should have written,
on the world’s last stack of sticky notes.
I ran my thumb over it,
to breathe life,
into my work.
Poorly-drawn, simplistic figures
walked to and fro,
and told each other
sophomoric jokes
until the cardboard showed.
“I could have mapped-out
my every action
months in advance,
or remembered to put on pants,
instead of making stick figures dance.”
I closed the flip book,
and rest it face-down on my desk
ashamed.
It’s all fun and games,
until fun and games interfere
with your daily life.
Needing a chuckle,
I opened it again
to repeat the cartoon anew.
Time well-spent, I say.
Up from the abyss,
Leaning in,
For this,
Pressing against,
The precipice.
“Not quite,”
Walking the line,
Not going quietly,
But we never intersect,
Not that there wasn’t any interest,
Or an interception,
But unrequited I stay.
The end,
Becomes smaller,
Ever smaller,
Yet does not fade away.
If it takes two to tango,
Then I must be the hammer to your anvil,
The apple to your mango,
The pan to your handle.
You’re the pictures on my mantle,
The flaming wick in a candle,
The bones in my ankle.
The Vandals,
Have returned to wrangle,
And some things are scrambled,
Dismantled,
And trampled.
But let’s not untangle,
Over just one scandal,
We’re not in shambles,
And it would ruin the preamble.
Please,
Spare me the details,
Your verbosity,
Will only derail,
The course of the story.
Your memory will fail,
Halfway through the tale,
And it will all be gone with the wind.
In it’s place: an awkward laugh,
A mystified grumble,
Or even a comment about how old you’re getting.
You’ll wonder why your memory lapsed,
Though this is mere curiosity,
As you free-fall down the rabbit hole,
Stroking your chin,
At terminal velocity.
Eyes to the heavens,
You’ll see,
The entrance to the chasm,
Shrink,
Until,
It becomes a twinkling,
North Star,
Imposter.
You can do anything,
If you whittle it away,
Day by day.
To become dexterous,
First learn some points of reference.
Next,
Take these sections,
And test them,
Until perfected,
I.E. effortless.
You’ll earn precious interest,
And revel,
In new-found zealousness.
Depressions,
Tend to accrue,
Collections,
And internalize them,
Creating literal,
Littoral gray areas.
Still still,
In the sunlight-
It’s dappled surface,
Slightly evaporated.
It has no mind,
To receive,
What it holds,
But it still becomes,
A pastiche.
Upon inspection,
The surface of the murk,
Projects lurid reflections,
Where not enshrouded,
By leaves,
Or speckled,
By pebbles.
The File Pile 