“Something like America…”…trends

Sanity implements


forever greeting,


Prevails against 

Keratin shrapnel,


At center 


Meddle with 

Process gaps 

Bridging what it means to function

In understanding of sodium deficiencies. 

Price dismisses




Price to situate

A Dollar General,

Mere blocks away 

From City Hall.

Where inside 

Small Town Politicians 


About the patriotic


Of the local Adult Bookstore



American flag, 

In their parking-lot. 

Trends qualify their loyalty  

In testament to 


“something like america” 

Populates the shelves

At thrift stores.

Class abandonment 

Promoted like labor cycles.

Precious metals

Transferred from African quarries

And stored inside used electronics,

Recycled as tropes 

Placating cosmetic solutions

Distinguishing the cost 

To sell the mirage of nothing. 


Recruiters for the Socialist Movement 

Took stock of those attending their rally

And Shifted focus from the lonely white-man,

And approached the college students.

Revoltuionaires recognize the importance



None of the comrades

Suggested sunscreen.

Daylight magnified 

Through the clear plastic straps

Outfitted along the backs 

Of the lawn chairs

Straightening young spines. 

Scorched flesh 

Indicated pinstripes,

Sequenced in lumps


By the chair’s manufactured


Grab and go


For prosperity


Like paper-towels


From an automatic wave. 

They said,

“Time is money

And socialists 

Chase the dollar

To recycle paper.”

And they said,

“Time is money 

And the youth 

Are cheap 

To buy.”

Anton – Babinski Syndrome

A clown carried armfuls of office trinkets, up the stairs. She pivoted, lost footing and shuffled toward the edge and discovered balance by leaning against the railing.  A stapler escaped her arms and pinged at random, as it descended with metal greeting metal. The stapler’s death rattle reverberated throughout the stairwell, carried itself to the supply ducts, set up inside the walls and mounted to the ceiling. 

Skin flakes and dandruff circulated in the air and traveled upwards, culminating in a grey curtain coating fan blades and surfaces which followed the gale’s leadership. The air ducts sheltered the ping and in exchange the noise vibrated and cleaned tiny spots, leaving polka-dots in the dust, along the sheet metal walls.

Staff confused the noisy central air for something sinister. 

“We got rats.” They said, “We must kill the vermin.”


An exterminator arrived late in the afternoon. He slipped into the ventilation system, clicked on his headlamp and army crawled, searching for remnants conducive to an infestation. But the light reflecting off the spaces made in the dust, reminded him of fireflies hovering over dark water, casting a strobe, in the night. He didn’t want to kill anymore. He inched backwards and exited onto the floor. 

“Well, did you get them all?” The office manager asked.

“I did.” He said. “You won’t be having any more problems.”

cHoke me with a good pOem

Art succumbs to loose ends mechanized to counter the better option and secure the knot. Colors and shapes adorn patterns that discover balance, knot secured. But the tie off is a solo experience, dangling requires assistance, physical instruction (body language) and verbal commands. It’s a Pendulum allegiance to no-one, which comprehends what’s in the middle. 

Poets write their instructions, intending oratory expression to aid them in distribution. 

Mediums for messaging are ripe for exploitation. 

Mirror neurons insist a reader is capable of writing an epic poem. They lead with this confidence, compose verse and declare against hollow breaths, “I am a poet.” 

Capitalist instincts permit the verse to be used for monetary gain, promoting competition by default. Where rank and file is concerned, there must be a system in place to place a person into their corresponding category. 

Self praise rationalizes the victory spoils. 

TV preachers acquire jets.

Poets are awarded with a good time and place to announce their words. Headline title representing the top prize and a room glutted with little wiggle room to stretch one’s arms, or tie one’s shoes. 

Warrior slave hugged his knees like an 8 month fetus. His love handles offered a crutch for the gladiator standing above him to leverage their balance. The gladiator confused sunshine for their golden helmet. Emperor shadows gave the thumbs down. 

A poet enters the bodega. They travel the aisles and happen upon a shelf labeled, “discount items.” Behind them a dairy freezer chills their elbows, but the cold escapes flesh as the poet’s arms lengthen to grab an expired box of saltine crackers from off the ledge. They hide the box inside their purse, turn about face and leave the store in a haste. 

“Someday,” they think. “I will write about this moment.”

Why is Wet Art Considered Ruined?


Secure patterns relinquished dimensional control, in effect, causing the colors to halt their allegiance and instead display reflections cased in sewage water, outfitted below a hollow, metallic, chessboard. 


City Folk 

Hide their catch-phrases 

Underneath the skin flaps

Decorating their furrowed foreheads. Crevices layered in grass set a home for a lampshade and water bottled tagged to represent a 1.50, in monetary value. If 72% of a human is made of water, that sets our cost on the low, for trade. 

We add value to our biology by consuming ten cents worth of tap water. 


Water dribbles from the painter’s kitchen faucet, they hoist paint brushes underneath the stream, massage acrylic paint from off the bristles. Water switches tints like a dissipating rainbow, as the artist forfeits thousands to a clean break and the pot of gold acknowledges it lost all value since Nixon divorced the dollar from the Gold Standard, but by setting the wet brushes in the sun to dry, wet art solidifies its achievements in performance. 

A Dead R(f)inger for the American Dream

Mental hospital sheek standardized curtain rods to operate on a quiet line.

Cutting apart the drapes and styling the scraps like snowflakes,

But it’s raining pills instead. 

Mannequins stand guard,

Hosting visions window-shopping 

For traffic, mastering the above the waist approval.

Head nods.

Crooked smiles.

Pierced ears, septum and the tongue 

To pin down tasty fashions. 

Posted in the window frame 

Were moving pictures. Shadows made useful

From off the glowing screen. 

Company becomes 

In conversations had 

By people ignoring people 

Ignoring people ignoring people. Outside a man shouts

Instructions to commit the perfect crime. 

But it’s past bedtime.

Dreams only become 

To people playing dead.

Revolution. Only You Win and Now You’re the Government Everyone Hates

Decisions calibrated to a coin flip signifies humanity’s assurance in empty gestures, to fill the gap bridging choice and consequence. 

Illusory standards disrupt the caustic fruit fly, appearing like static in the peripheral eye-line. Murder impulse remains to remove the annoyance. (Swat) and the deed is done.

A universe diluted with solo involvement, without recognition for why such expressions began.


Here’s clarity, as if an answer belongs to the end. 


Chance occurs without reason and solutions happen in a natural state. 

Gravity removes a tomato soup can from off the shelf, lands on her naked toes, resulting in a welt which  she shares as an example of her bad day. 

Trump became president and Armageddon was sure to follow, the same goes for Biden too. 

Somehow…the fruit fly survives a murder plot, lives out the remainder of their 40 day life span, in testament to Jesus’ resilience to walk away unscathed from the Judaean desert, only to be crucified, leaving after another 40 days as God’s son.

Art as an “Investment”

“The best revenge is not to be like your enemy.”- M. Aurelius

A wart overtook the artist’s knuckle, preventing their wrinkles from attempting full bloom. Inside their bedroom, low wattage bulbs approved weak shadows whose tint intermingled with the blemish’s eclipse, making it difficult to distinguish where their flesh clumped up to form the bump. 

In order to recoup their losses on art supplies and wart remover, the artist had to attend the Art Fair to sell their aluminum sculptures…

At the art fair, geriatric patrons shuffled along with enthusiasm, remarking about folk art and hobby watercolors. 

“That’s nice.” Reverberated.  

A woman named Betty approached the metal sculptures and commented how they formed like Escher’s staircase, leading to nowhere but her front lawn. Her fantasy obliged originality, a keen fashion sense and encouraged dog walkers to pause before her mailbox and become so enthralled with the creative soul behind the storm windows, they have no other option but to ignore their mutt pissing onto their shoes.

Romans quipped about the effeminate and flamboyant aesthetics, featured in Greek art. Details attuned to everything human blurred the Roman stoics commitment to duty, forcing the Philosopher Emperor to meditate and declare an end to textbook definitions of the mind and body conundrum. 

Contemporary stoics maintain internet culture, providing fodder for postmodernists who weaponize their bland expressions and dissect fads, in straight lipped glee, attaining their own followers in the process, laughing in lust, greed and irony. 

1983 prepared the world for Orwell’s prediction, by unleashing unto it the Cabbage Patch Doll. These artifacts of folk art challenged cuteness, placing a child’s hair and eye color within mirror neurons, to reflect self, insinuating that purchasing one meant the consumer was buying a part of their soul. Riots coincided with pilgrimages, religious fanatics ended their quest one doll richer, but none the wiser. 

Betty looked at the artist’s knuckle.

“I have something for that.” She commented and reached into her purse.

“Here,” she said. 

“Thanks.” The artist replied. “That’ll be 500.00 for the sculpture.”

Trusting Silence to Reveal the Truth and Becoming Depressed about what is revealed….

The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live – moreover, the only one.“-Emil Cioran

Adoration for simplicity, qualified Kingdom-come, welcomed new centuries and fixed regicide to rectify introspection. 

(If we are GODS. We are MARTYRS too).

Newscaster reported that, “the revolution will not be televised,”as footage of the capital burning played in a corner of the screen. Flames styled the thumbnail and like the Newscaster’s pantsuit, proxied for the bigger picture. 

It’s recorded that Socrates rallied against the alphabet, suggesting the written word weakened someone’s ability to comprehend knowledge. (If we are GoDs…we are MARTyrs too). 

The Law Enforcement Training Center believes game-shows demonstrate human nature. As such, they’ve placed a television in the breakroom of their facility. On it stays the game-show-network. Educators recommend students study the facial expressions of contestants, as they oppose time and equals to win cash and valuables. It’s been implied that those participants who walk away without competing for a higher sum are akin to criminals familiar with white collar crimes. 

Simplicity offsets the original complication, be it Spinoza’s god, or a turtle hauling the universe on its shell over an endless sea of stars. 

Lying demonstrates the achievements of silence. 

Writing Letters to a Ghost.

“The medium is the message.”- Marshall McLuhan

A splash of almond milk imprinted a dot underneath the W key of my keyboard. Fingernail analysis decreed my index nail, to be the most equipped, in removing the blemish. I scratched at it. Multiple W’s sequenced horizontally across my Word doc. I began to delete them, but as the cursor approached the final W, I stayed the winking line and considered leaving the letter there. The consequences of which fascinated me. 

What would the reader think? Would they comment on the misplaced letter? If so, would they delve further and scrutinize my grammatical skills? Quite possibly thinking my attention to detail measured my intelligence and posited me as lacking in knowledge? 

In the end, I fell to the pressure of societal norms and erased the letter.

Written language, in the age of social media, has set a new hierarchy when communicating with a person. 

I believe it rates as such:

  1. Text message.
  2. Social media message.
  3. Responding to someone’s status with a like, etc.
  4. Watching a person’s story. 
  5. Email.

As one communication vessel is ignored, another fills its place. 

Symbols hijack emotional states. 

An emoji signals for silence. Cartoon expressions are treasured, aid us in understanding these methods of hello, lacking tone and body language. Harkening back to childhood, when baser instincts translated, stone faced Sesame-Street-puppets and their performances, bridging the gap between Mickey Mouse smiling, knowing he’s happy and Eeyore frowning, knowing he’s the curmudgeon. 

As with anything human, it’s never that easy. 

What does it mean if someone won’t text a person back, but they’ll view their social media story?

There’s no cartoon trainer, guiding our perceptions, on such rejections, or the opposite, when there’s too much text on screen. 

Humans adapt quite well. We’re capable of exploiting resources, ideas, or physical objects to simplify existence. 

However, unforeseen consequences arise from our adaptations (global warming to list one). 

What are these consequences pertaining to such new methods of communication…


artificial sweetener

Artificial sweetener packets decorated the car’s floor-mats.

Their wet shoes made them martyrs. A few sprinkles escaped,

Separated and near change,

Butterfly wings dried 

And saved their disintegration  

For the last trip home. 

Some moments belong in paper-bags. 

It’s all relative 

To the drop off, stepping out,

Putting rehearsal to use and knowing

Lives which interact 


Accidental greetings 

Are what relationships represent. 

It won’t happen again. 

At least not like this. 

Time intervals, conducive to love

Flitter like an excuse 

To leave the situation behind. 

“hello.” means 

They never had a chance.