cycles

Autophagy

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I’m tired of sweeping it

all under the rug,

of not acknowledging

the harms of an abundance

of clutter.

Yet I am a collector,

every broken piece, loose-end

and so on,

has fallen about,

my feet

regardless of redundancy.

I”m not comfortable enough

in my own skin

to leave it on —

too disgusted with myself

to pick all the empty suits

off the floor.

I’ve yet to come to terms

with the simple fact

that self-preservation

comes by way

of a controlled burn

at times.

With that, I curl my tail

all the way back,

and start to gnaw.

It’s all going to the same place

anyway.

Cash Crops

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When you have what you need

you live in abundance.

Like clockwork,

we move,

shed, molt,

go dormant

and emerge anew,

something ventured,

something gained

and something left behind.

To sow and reap,

you must

slash and burn,

you must preen and prod

and above all else,

you must stay diligent.

Unceremonious

we cast aside the chaff,

the husks and hulls —

our daily bread’s

last line of defense.

Nothing is redundant.

Time isn’t always borrowed,

it can be rented,

or invested,

or leveraged.

In boomtimes and busts

harvest arrives,

whether you’re ready

or withered on the vine.

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Entropy

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Things rarely coincide,

With our colorful graphs,

Hopeful expectations,

measured projections

And detailed guides.

There is truly evil,

And bright spots to counter it,

And most know the typical script,

To this classic conflict,

Up to its denouement.

But change the variables,

To the triumph of chaos

Over order,

And few fear anything more.

Yet in this life,

The single worst bet one can make,

Is that everything will become predictable,

And clinical.

That with time’s inevitable,

Inescapable lapse,

That the house will never one day

collapse.

We won’t relive the past,

Though things can relapse,

Because with the march of time,

We can revisit where we’ve been,

But we cannot become again.

We exit states of high concentration,

To return to areas of low,

Momentum erodes,

Into stillness,

With building pressure,

Comes a sometimes violent

Release.

Order decays

Into disarray,

Unless you’re there to pick up the pieces.

The Life of a Write-Off

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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.

Tilt-A-Whirl

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Diamond-plated steps,

peeling paint,

and a cardboard ruler

demonstrating the height requirement.

Pewter pistons,

hidden hinges

standing cushions,

eroded by time

and centrifugal force.

Blinking lights all around the ridges

and a long line of patrons

brandishing bracelets

soft drinks,

plush prizes

and crumpled tickets.

The ride spins,

blinking like a UFO,

ready to launch

and fly faster than light,

but it never gets off the ground.

You stumble around,

pretty dizzy,

ready for the next thrill.

“One more time?”

she says.

Your hair is mussed,

from the last six times,

she asked.

“Why not,”

you say,

while turning about face,

to stand single-file

once more.

Means to an End

Image

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What stands today simply cannot stay-

And there is no way to delay, to hold at bay,

It will all sway, grey and flay,

Forests filled with life, are also forests of decay.

The oak that falls crushes what is underneath,

In a massive faltering apogee,

It opens up the canopy,

And gloriously atrophies.

We run the same race at different rates,

And have different faces, yet the same fate.

“The end is a conclusion,”

That seems to be a delusion,

The end is an illusion,

Or an allusion,

There is some confusion.