Pity the Lack of Pithy and Pythia
I regress into an abscess of
historical references brought
on by a rhetorical flourish
for generic responses fraught
with dangerous levels of stress.
Just as an oracle predicts
future events amidst indifference
I must be honest to what comes next
which is a natural irreverence
at even the best esoterics.
Presently tense & half-past due
when trouble ferments revolution
through rose-colored glasses full of booze
so we choose a partial solution
involving the clothes of a statue.
Excerpts XIV
You disarm me in such an alarming fashion
as if this feeling is like anything
I have felt before. Where does one even begin?
With the butterflies that reside inside of me,
the size of giants, stirring up wellsprings of my
inner being with sentiments of your fancy
and comely eyes on iridescent wings.
You delight me to reunite truth and beauty
just as I wish for my lips on your hand,
through a soft whisper, sumptuous beyond lovely.
Nice Returns on Urns of Ice
The process of putting on airs in a city that burns
may seem futile to those who stress utility through vice.
A better way, from the viewpoint of a gentry that yearns
for shrouded sky, is to deluge this grey earth for a price.
Or can the cost go so beyond normal means that it earns
ire among everyone still coping with ash and lice.
These sorry souls, decent enough, trade misery for turns
under stagnant water even though anguish should suffice.
Holy Ghost in the Machine
I held my listening jar as far from her ears
as was practical, standing on a stack of
bar-shaped boxes that finally felt coherence.
She touched the air with hands made to resist years
of imitation much like wearing a glove
too large for her small frame of reference.
I thought there should be few theories from his mind
worthy of wonder when he's simply a fool
by proxy with an exquisite ease for bullshit.
He pondered upon the difference behind
every copy of his breakthrough as a cruel
and unusual punishment minus the wit.
We see eye to eye like needles on a thread
that unraveled from the fabric of our shared
lives, if such things existed beyond metaphor.
It looked suspiciously pale, almost undead,
and whether this was normal or not as it stared
at us with blindness became too much of a chore.
This piece of God inside the jar understood
what they needed but to tell them would do no good.
So it sat there, better than fortune, which will fade
unlike wrath which rises the same as a killing blade.
Holes in the cap, punched with a pattern resembling
an unknown constellation of a winged-man stumbling.
Saint John the Televangelist
There are times, exceptional and true,
that none can fathom from a practical
point of view. An era born by you,
the ephemeral one, the magical
son of a rich eccentric that knew
well enough around all things mystical.
Your name being writ with a star's breath,
sensitive to beggars and prophecy
while rising above questions of death
by quieting those sworn to secrecy.
Each crossroad leads to a lithe prism
where wedding bells and a gown of torn silk
are held under false nails that schism
'tween the Alpha, the Omega, the ilk,
banished through a malapropism
uttered by a holy man bathed in milk.
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