Unearthing Sky

Under a spooning dome of swollen sky, they gather in swirling kettles. They never know where to look until a vision taunts them. They hesitate. The light of the sky waiting for its own green signal. Then they shine. How do they know to be so quiet?

The red things reflect the reds. The rest of the spectrum disappears into all the red things. Now everything is bathed in light. Rainbows crammed into the suitcases of every wave, every particle. The neurotic, misty light searches everywhere, looking for shadows to expose. It is constant. Seeing makes it confess to this persecution of the dark.

If it could only shine inside one, for a while, then we could see them too. The shadows. We could see within them. What on earth could be found in such a place? Light thinks it’s the only thing that matters. But without it we could not see fit to argue. Are we shadows, then?

Exquisite

A refinement of the tastes is a projection of superiority orchestrated by the ego. Its cost/benefit boils down to a reduction in opportunities to experience sensory pleasure of the many things beneath one’s high standards vs the enhanced enjoyment of pride.

This axiom is countered by the argument that quality is an actual phenomenon, that some things really are better than others. But qualities are themselves projections of the mind, which in human beings tends to be dominated by the ego.

[slops a dab of gruel into a crude bowl]

Now eat your breakfast and quit complaining.

Address to an Infant in a Stranger’s Baby Carriage

(My latest piece to be submitted to, and rejected by, McSweeney’s. Live long, and keep writing.)

Our connection seems faint, an imperceptible nod from a passerby at some un-appointed hour. Does it not? What is this, do I know you?

Yet, here we are breathing the same air. You’re a lot like me, I bet. Stubborn and given to brash episodes of furious ingratitude, consumed by a facile self-obsession, a rancorous preoccupation with feeding and napping and all of it punctuated with a factory-like production of pant soiling emergencies. Don’t I know it. Continue reading “Address to an Infant in a Stranger’s Baby Carriage”

Haunts

you flat-lined in a speckless green room
long nursing that saline bit of light

departing all, the tactics, ploys
the body that you thought was you

with all its hopes and needs and joys
has up and gone, it slipped away

so now you search for haunts anew
nowhere to go, no way to stay

the heartbeat line is flat, a bow
to fleeting breath, and hope’s decay

they note the time of death as now
and exeunt all, give o’er the play

Plea Bargain

Q. What do you call an opioid epidemic in a white neighborhood?
A. Opioid epidemic.

Q. What do you call an opioid epidemic in a black neighborhood?
A. Crime wave.

Q. What’s the difference between a pharmaceutical company and a drug cartel?
A. I give up, what.

Q. What is the purpose of the law?
A. To protect people who have stuff from people who don’t.

Q. What do you call a white man with an assault rifle?
A. Open carry advocate.

Q. What do you call black boy with a squirt gun?
A. Officer involved shooting.

Q. What do you call a rapist who runs for president?
A. Mr. President.

Q. What do you make of this fucking country anymore?
A. Fuck me, IDK.

Pipe

a truly original work
would not be recognized as art
and language cannot begin to function
without tapping the manifold intents
of its every instance
from the first lowbrow grunt
to the last ephemeral buzzword
creation implies something springing from nothing
a nonstarter, a hat trick beyond
the scope of even a heavenly godcraft

The stupider it looks, the more important it probably is.
—J. R. “Bob” Dobbs