The Birthright of a Sunny Day

Allergic reactions to caffeine stimulate the medulla oblongata to contort and recreate the spineless position of villains vandalizing the purple from Mountains Majesty. Jalapeno spices flavor organized throat slithers, gulping thoughts running parallel to earthworms discovering blacktop for the first time.  

Gas station clerk stares blankly at packages of NoDoz dangling from hooks stationed on the wall behind the register. 

“Excuse me!” A man shouts. He’s wearing a t-shirt featuring the Gadsden flag, his sagging pecs protrude the rattlesnake out from his chest like it’s preparing to strike. 

“Yeah…” Gas station clerk responds as he turns to face him. 

“I need a package of Marlboro.” 

“Reds?”

“Yeah.” 

Gas station clerk grabs a cigarette package off the shelf.

“Things will kill you,” he says, handing him the box. 

“That’s the idea.” He responds, smiling. 

Noon-day shadows regulated daydreams, accosted images transpiring from priceless literature.  

American stars posed for strobe-lights, reflections of passing profiles sat in the window glass of automobiles traveling along the yellow lines of brick-road fancy. 

Vacuum cleaner salesman competes for doorbells against political canvassers, assembled en masse. Salesman is alone. He’s a capitalist. He’s alone. Canvassers have each other. But they feel alone. They’re not alone.

loneliness

Civilians eliminate communication as if receiving their degradation is a privilege.  Time compensates for the lapse of company by allowing entertainment to infiltrate consciousness, sequencing the blood from a frown to itemized nutrition, listed like movie credits, vying for affection from dilated tongue spurts. 

Bum-Lick-Jane wipes the spittle, preserved where her wrinkles rotate from a smile to a wink, onto the back of her hand. She’s holding a Styrofoam cup in her other hand, bottom of which is littered with change and lint. She shakes it as a man saunters by, he stares at his shoes and studies speckles of dirt, decorating the knot, made of his white shoe-strings. 

‘He’s ignoring me.’ She thinks. ‘I don’t blame him.’ 

A poet lays on a park bench, watches a gaggle of geese penetrate the sky holding the shape of an arrow. 

‘There’s no way to describe this…properly…’He thinks and directs his focus to clouds, shaped like the limitations of his imagination. 

Bum-Lick-Jane used to play tambourine in a folk-punk-band. She remembers the beats each time she quivers her cup, but it’s the silence of their rejection she hears the loudest.

Three P’s

Sitcom dialogue influenced by meta brandishing, character lips pulsating in accordance to dial tones, placated on screens smaller than faces, inviting cataracts to scar rapid eyes, blinking censorship. 

Empty pill bottle requires Bad Faith inquisitions to clone the metabolism process of throat to vein maze transference. To welcome aches and pains is to carry the weight of being human and depending upon the planet a human finds themselves on, the responsibility of weight shifts from their shoulders to their toes. Steps intimidate insects peering up at the humans. Perspective places blame on radical pincers, gripping noses and tearing mucus from cartilage. Perspective blame allows the assault victim to speak in a nasally tone while compiling gibberish to crescendo conversation, “what! Can’t you understand me?” Granted. This approach has been abused by politicians, police and priests. The Three P’s of Polarization. 

Politician quibbles like, “eh, what, doh, no..can’t you hear me over the helicopter blades?

Police relish the, “can’t you hear me over the thrumming of batons?” 

Of course the priest takes the easy route by utilizing a vow of silence. 

Per the Looking-Glass through the Lighthouse

Lighthouse circulates strands of  illumination through fog plumes, dressing the rocky-shores of anywhere USA in a strobe of smoky flash-bangs. Fans of Aubrey Hepburn approach the shore, wearing masks of her face, holes punctured at ear level, filled and fixed with noose knots composed from fragile twine to hold the disguise in place. They dig out pebbles, buried at ground level. Wet earth embeds underneath their fingernails, few of them transfer the mud to their clothes, persist on excavating even as their cohorts emphasize the disgusting act of dislodging dirt onto designer duds. Relaying comments like, “our queen would never do something so vile!” 

After accumulating a handful of flat pebbles the fans skip them across the water, designating ripples which collide as throws continue. 

The keeper of the lighthouse watches the fans through binoculars. 

He leans to his right, whispers to a headless mannequin, “look at ‘em. What’s with humans? Always thinking the answers are in the water. But we know better! Right!”

He places his arm around the mannequin’s shoulder. 

“We’ve got it all figured out! Here on land! Yeah. Being lifeless is what life’s about.” 

planZzZz

Bellyache rumblings conscript the hunger pains of traveling galaxies, salutations to mutilations separating the restrictions of consciousness from formulating progressive observations on reasons to discriminate the namesake of stars and planets. Time acknowledges dimensions required to accommodate every possibility unraveling as descriptions unfold. 

But if an animal severs the jugular vein of another and no one is around to recognize the color of blood, how should the killer chirp when their beak saves his voice from moaning? 

Specimens align themselves against a broken white picket fence. One of the more burly individuals tips his bowler hat as a stranger passes without a peep. Another opens a package of Advil and tosses back the pills, using a glob of spit to choke down the medicine. They’re in pain from standing on their feet all day. 

Inventions of humans to operate through day to day, consists of language, action and prayer. Like the heads of Hydra, if one invention fails another grows from a severed stump and fails in its place. An introduction to such failures begins as hello, but conventional hierarchy replaces goodbye with a slew of improvised authorities. 

Feudal.

Democracy. 

Socialism. 

Capitalism (don’t laugh). 

Carnivores have their eyes centered on the front of their skull, prey grow their eyes on the sides to scope out the cityscape propagating the neon fascinations, training predators to hide behind advertisements. 

Rose bushes gather killer colors to showcase the worth of plain clothes. 

Religion.

Saints.

And neighbors…

Death by Design

Corpse of a wild boar rotted under the pines, to comfort the wicked, park ranger Pearl fastened googly eyes to wild boar’s grey eyes with gorilla glue. She posted a sign beside the remains which read: Kick Me. The site was popular among parents desirous to demonstrate the afterlife, inviting their children to, “go ahead and kick it! Watch the eyes jiggle. See…no-body ever dies.” 

Life undefinable? Defined to limitations concurrent to language. 

Poet lifted her pen and then set it down. She had an idea…had an idea…she lifted her pen again…she had an idea…had an idea. 

Volunteer was phone banking for his choice for political office. His call connected and the intercept message, void of race or class stated: I’m sorry; the number you have reached is not in service, or temporarily disconnected. The number you have reached is not in service at this time. This is a recording. 

Jimbo, maintenance person for Lakescam Properties, scanned over his list of projects for the day.

“Oh, man…” He said.

“What?” His assistant asked.

“We gotta change the light bulbs in the hallways today.”

“So. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“I mean…the task isn’t difficult…it’s just…there are always a bunch of dead bugs inside the thing..”

“What thing?” 

“Ya know. The thing covering the light bulbs?” 

“Haah.” His assistant chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just. The way you describe the thing.” He made air quotes. “Makes it sound like a casket and we’re the undertakers.”

“Yeah…hm…life is funny that way.”

dried time

Dried Time, rehearsed ambivalence, required Armageddon to drop the arrogance routine. Descriptions of low entropy beguiled by failed magic, and if the universe fails it’s only in relevance to sentient subjectivity. Considering a starless sky shall greet the final element and proclaim synchronized repetition vital to what makes screaming in space special. (oxygen slacking off as always). Consumer spoils envision art lacking the creature comforts of dreams, chimeras and sunsets over oblivion. Black hole encapsulates the diameter of dull notes plucked on pigeon throats cooing at the beams of light streaming in through the cracks in the barn, built of plywood. Riot police organize rows of compliance to dictate angry footsteps molesting blacktop as Dried Time marches forward. Flags compete for targets, for mouth swashes, for temptations of neanderthal trajectories. Projections rotate among patches of Dried Time. Wink. Blink. Ballerina winces as she  balances on tippy toes and rotates to demonstrate when darkness forgets its motive to reject invisible waltzes. Rumors circulate to lips and lungs, exchange value and currency at the Post Office, but only on Mondays to avoid the weekend crowd. Smell of fresh cut grass disturbs the homeless man in overalls who stalls on the sidewalk before a troupe of rowdy college freshmen, announcing what should be whispered the instructions for forgetting tomorrow as if it’s today. Television static substitutes for fireflies illuminating cityscapes, reserved like blank tapes waiting for memories. Comatose zombies portend a future composed of philosophical zombies wandering the halls of high schools. Preaching the importance that public education extends to disenfranchised brain clad up-right, up-tight citizens disappearing at dusk, in anticipation for dawn. Dead as door nails or what considers death, as which ape signs hunger, or the ape who learned to paint and decorated their first canvas with the bars of his cage. Boxes full of fabric, incite potential to be designer duds, as in the type of duds placed on mannequins, but pinned back to fit the thin frame, nevertheless more human for Dried Time adorned plastic composers, desirous of compositions foreign to crescendos. Music happened when the lungs forgot to breathe and questioned the throat for advice, out blathered melodies sweet and simple, but complex in explanation. Absolute misfortune planted the American flag on the moon, taunted foreign dictators to drop their dinner forks and eat lettuce with their fingers like Western dignitaries did. Out of anger came respiratory failure. Out of capitalism came credit, thousands of mannequins borrowed filers from imprisoned gangsters and shaved their arms and used the scraps to construct cards. Dried Time broke the Liberty Bell. Dried Time created labyrinths to which it advised the Fibonacci sequence to taunt those passing-by to take a chance on what nature offers best. Around the corner from these monstrosities mannequins built shelter for natural predators, accumulating bullet wounds to wear like designer whispers. Dried Time. Dried Time. Dried time and the end is nigh…

voice from a flame

Lighter fluid displaced, at what juncture in time does a misplacement flourish? Mathematical inclusivity demands that out of the options for placement inside the room, an object eventually is there. To coincide, flames will scream, blessed by chemical cohabitation, but to rewind and place the fluid back inside the lighter, impossible? Deemed…impossible. 

Smoke anchors the pupils, dizzies up observant America.

Revolutionaries name their Molotov cocktails and deliver unto targets a battle-cry their victim will identify

And Che burns…

And Stalin burns…

And South America burns…

And Congo burns… 

And the misfortunes of orphans isn’t derived from a lack of parental guidance. NO. 

It’s what happens when colors do catch fire.