Drum roll please,
Thumb, pointer, middle, ring, pinky-
And repeat,
Repeat,
Repeat.
While you daydream,
Whilst waiting,
Impatiently,
Humming,
Tapping your feet.
“Read a magazine,
Or something,
More distracting–
Or less distracting,
To other people,
Please,
Quit fidgeting,
Stop twitching.”
Flat screen Televisions,
Cover the walls,
Untouched children’s toys,
I’m too old for,
Riddle the floor.
Stuck in the lobby,
Awaiting drills,
Hooks, brushes,
And pumice.
Let there be light,
turn the knob twice.
Curled, coiled,
incandescent filament
glowing white-hot,
between two prongs,
helping us bear witness.
Until it pops,
and everything stops-
a blue spark,
flashes twice as bright,
when it’s burned for too long.
It all comes crumbling down,
both pins drop
all the dancing cherubs
they once held on their heads.
You’re distracted,
by the floating, bluish,
inkblots that slide,
away from your line of sight.
You ask yourself
“how many idiots does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
In lieu of taking a shot
in the dark, you quietly exit
to find a replacement.
Purchase appearances,
On clearence,
$5.99 for 3 packs of 9,
And a vase,
At the same place.
Tiger lillies,
Blue roses,
Lotus seed pods,
Chinese porcelain,
Arranged radially,
Placed carefully,
In the living room.
So you will admire,
Not approach.
So you will comment,
Not converse.
How chic.
Matte black and monochrome,
Glassy, placid patch,
In the interplay,
Of the moonlight,
There’s a swirling spectre,
A rainbow in the asphalt.
The oil pan,
Is trying its hand,
At abstract expressionism.
The slow drip isn’t quite random,
And easier to understand,
Than the grand hand of man,
But even without command,
It’d be too harsh to say it’s bland.
My car may be,
A little bit pretentious,
But it’s not just artist-artifice,
I believe in it.
Years ago,
What was just depiction,
We now know,
Is not fiction.
Mechanical animals,
Seemed laughable,
Impractical,
But now they’re factual,
Downright palpable,
But not infallible.
They’re slow and loud,
Too pricey to make crowds,
Not even endowed,
With body shrouds.
Limbs twisted,
Moving pistons,
Exposed systems,
Soon to be,
Big business.
Mechanical mules,
Climbing like cats,
In need of fuel,
That isn’t grass.
Wu wei,
Each day,
Parlay,
Then part ways.
Nonaction, indeed,
Is a good strategy.
An absentee,
Cannot be,
On the team,
Deemed,
The loser.
Nonaction,
Trains one,
To run from,
The game,
Entirely.
“Let it fall on your lap,”
Relax,
Take a nap,
Do your taxes.
No matter how fast,
You run,
The rat race,
It doesn’t change,
The fact,
That beyond it’s face,
It’s a maze.
Structures,
Carefully crafted,
To cause ruptures.
Bite down,
Break through,
Crumbling, crunching, crumpling,
Splitting in two.
Anchors for muscles,
Housings for engines,
Ivory tunnels,
Which flank,
The body’s front door.
Leave room for more!
Gnawing,
Sawing,
Clawing.
You are what you eat.
Seriously,
That matter becomes you.
That saying is true,
You eat,
So you can continue,
To chew.
Running in straight lines,
Just as the crow flies,
Steadily passing parallel powerlines.
Low-amplitude sine waves,
Carry their currents,
Held up by perpendicular poles.
The junction,
At the upcoming intersection,
Then shifts direction,
Bringing you past ranch-style homes,
With green pastures,
In lieu of downtrodden ghost towns,
Tagged with graffiti.
Transiently-
You survey the land,
From a comfortable seat,
In an iron steed,
With a one-track mind.
Scanning the outside,
All you find,
Is that you have lost yourself,
On the way.
The aperture
of a telescope
cannot get
cataracts,
but it can be scratched,
through carelessness,
or callousness.
When you don’t need it,
it collapses
like a bashful brass,
Matryoshka.
The mount
will need to be screwed on,
swiveled,
tilted,
and tightened.
The eyepiece
will fatigue
if you strain,
but that’s only if
you spend too much time searching
and not enough time
finding.
There’s no rewinding,
If you missed Saturn’s rings
because you blinked,
or a lunar eclipse,
because you happened to drift.
So whatever it is you’re looking for
I hope you find it,
because it comes down to timing sometimes,
even with the right tools,
even when you know what you’re looking for,
even when you think you’ve found it.
The dresser won’t budge,
It’s been there for a while,
Maybe the floor is used to it.
Would it hold a grudge,
If it felt exiled?
What if it fit?
The spot underneath,
Tan, sandy-brown,
Like an old business sock.
Or a heath,
Found downtown,
In the land of hard-knocks.
Maybe a change of scenery,
Is what it needs,
Instead of rearrangement.
Maybe it should see some greenery,
I could toss it into the weeds,
If I could accept the estrangement.
I hope,
It doesn’t score the floorboards,
Or tip over.
The File Pile 