40 love-lost knights

Your relationship with the fact

piranhas are cowardly and freakish alone, stressed to the point their skin changes color, highlights the fat of the businessperson, showing their narcissistic insecurity through power derived from others. Ceilings are floors; parades are funerary processions; pillars of community are thieves and criminals illuminating tokens, and owners of SUVs are flocking to illegal horns which deafen pedestrians. Who cares, with a noise-canceling interior? Ego drives the road we struggle to navigate, aware we’re technically nothing. I wish I believed the universe existed for us to conquer, mine, and destroy. It would be much easier to murder those who blundered into the rifle sight of that particular aim. I’d like to duct tape the offending owners’ heads against their high priced sirens luring the best part of themselves, from their higher purpose on earth. Gangs protect those who are lost, add nationalism in the face of world terror to the scene of Catholics burning witches alive, afeard of the power a single person could muster, if they strayed from the herd banding together for sanity. Excuse me for taking a saint’s name in vain, but Jesus Christ! When will the hollow men in power fall to the people’s shine for reason, and truth? We magnify deceit, by converting to it, in-between a few sad rallies for virtue. I tell myself not to be terrorized by my imminent failure in whatever I passionately undertake, but increasing our faith is hard,

without books to tell us how-to,

or what not to do.

He was

a latent honorary homosexual,

unfulfilled by the ususal fantasies most half-ways inhabit. His friends courted their internal dramas like prospectors scratching Nevada mountains for precious metals, setting up shop with (surgically altered) hermaphrodite dykes, and waiting for the meteor to hit, or the ground to rend, crawling charred and smoking to the next (human) disaster zone. We guarded the ‘perfect drunk’ as my borrowed brother called it, without formal apology whenever these wrecking balls came around, whining their little worlds to entire universes. A rampant, chomping cigar-fest of (utterly) bohemian types ferried us on an Arabian carpet of incense smoke to

Running from

the earthly marathon lends itself

to stumbling across its course, and completing it unwinningly. The greater undermine becomes the surface sinkhole in time, filling with rain and stagnating. Finer examples of change are unseen or heard, for being so subtly present observing the holes, from the ravage of gravity,

or the explosives they sought

to contain.