vivaennui

This blue orb spinning Pushed out gravitational force so strong Sent it out to the tin cans tied with string The children conspiring Puckered lips of the mailman whistling Morse code. Finally, shot back down to me All the lines and grids and black streaks Careening cars of what sincerity Has forged to bring such words Amidst the wreckage In making sense of this world. We’re left with Sticky rice Lumpy oatmeal What to make from all of this.

Confusing Eyes With Mouths We use bottles for glasses Confounding, confusing eyes and tongues This is why we’re blind. Seeing isn’t believing We can’t believe what we’re seeing We think we can taste the truth How bad do we want it? Pick it up off of the floor Dust it off Try to put it in out mouths again Like an infant Who can’t believe The objects they see can be So colorful So he picks up anything With his fat sticky fingers and Fumbles it into his mouth We try to grab things With our nimble fingers Realities we can’t pick up We can’t even reach We can’t admit that though The baby can try Just like baby, we babble Slobber, stammer, yammer, wage Those glasses aren’t binoculars They do not magnify the real picture Those glasses we wear pass through our lips Suffocating the air, swallowing up the gap Tongues and teeth are mere mile markers How far gone we become Slightly delusional By ...

Among Crows and Giants If I took out a pen for every wasteful thought I wanted to write by the end of the day, At night it grows ignorance and scuttles away. If I took out a pen every time I wanted to document a worthy emotion, It would have the legs of a giant. I do not know when my complications, Became more than a worry about getting a ride to Mary’s house to play. I do not know when I didn’t have a pen. Most memories that I have are flashes of a shutter, Printed on faded paper. Faded paper and washed out colors, Are the things my memory generates. All I can really tell is these things are neither, Memorably good, or memorably bad. I consist of quilted indifferences, Depicted with a brush consisting of a mere five bristles. I remember seeing crows’ feet around my Dad’s eyes. I knew just what that meant, crows feet. Mary got married and stopped worrying about me being late to play. I was now watching my Dad grow old just as...