Shooting Blanks

There is no more room for cleverness for

Every bed is occupied.

When dawn came and the birds rolled out,

Emerging like tattered dewdrops from

Their branches, dull and shrieking,

I knew it was time for breakfast.

What is loneliness?

Loneliness is having a beautiful thought,

Feeling a divine sensation,

Seeing something resplendent, even life-changing,

And having nobody to share the news with.

A God is up for sale.

Bargain wisely.

I am a poet who does not read poetry,

A captain who is afraid of the sea,

A child who finds displeasure in every pleasure,

That most disquieted soul perched between the
Terrible Whimsies: Hell and Heaven:

Fancy and Sense.

There was a time once, a time a long time ago, a time

When time felt less like an instrument of time and more

Like a crime against those rueful joys unburdened from

Concrete schoolyards in September.

Do we weep for lost time? or

Are we to pray for more of it? when

Did it go? where

Has it hidden itself?

Do not worry

For you are cherished and

You are whole,

You are a bright, blind seacreature

Winging it

Through vast seas, bleak seas,

Oh,

I only wish you could see it,

You.

Iota. Iodine. Ichigo. Illumined.

These I words do not

Revolve around I, O

Narcissus.

Are you sick of yourself, you?

Good, me too.

Are you sick of yourself, you?

No? How true.

If there’s one thing I want, it’s to be free, truly free.

My brain doesn’t even belong to me. My thoughts

Are yours. Apparently, they were offered to you, by

Me? No. That can’t be.