Black mirror, where does your despondency lay?
Have the winged southern bells returned to proffer contemplative advice?
Do they know your pools, somber and profound?
Does anyone accept our seas plaintiff and underrated?
Our mires and moats grow heavy with all that we’ve learned.
Crows have picked all sanctimonious bones from my husk, so over the hill
Doubts hurl about in the frenzy of drafty April’s afternoon
Theologians with their vestments of velvet billowing from the tundras
could never let their fibers flounder in the stance of this jubilee
This epiphany defies sectarian gospel
So much so, any shallow impetus…neither could not or would not, draw a rebirth improvisation from established misery
A sense of victory weaves as poetic vines in circles around the lies once fed
The earth does not grow beneath a prostrate bed
pastures of juniper, poplar, beech and alike
oxygen snatches for the modest
impoverished by city lights…
wall flowers grow difficult to define
as lumbering, celestial, equine
steady in constitution
nevertheless an uncut, honesty… simple to mock
albeit their outcries to barking giants…awaiting in the night
Belly to the bar
this is the place i could go
dancing in destiny’s afterglow
in a forest of folk and lore
cardboard sayings for a cure
no race to be won in the land of papered, big, book, restraint
in this dance life strolls with a limp
sobering how i get around…when drink is down
iron seats bequeathing intimate strangers
all making calls…24 hours a day…to other confidential visitors
each of us with our own bumper sticker philosophy