220616A
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We make waste of it,
when we dream too much.
Gathering up all the little disappointments
that then get put out for collection.
We planned on more guests
only to find that they did not arrive.
We were going to create something new
but very few, if any, wanted it.
We thought that it would last longer,
only to find that it was obsolete.
We thought to keep it around,
hoping to find some use for it.
There were so many wonderful plans,
that there was no way to afford.
They changed all the designs
and someone else built on them.
Sometimes it seems it is all that way,
having been merely another dream.
Something that we were wishing for
that ended as far away as the distant stars.
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220616B
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When every broken thing reminds you,
that it seems too familiar:
when looking at it feels the same
as looking into a mirror.
The rattle of those little pieces,
having come loose from somewhere:
the same as the rattle
from rattlesnake bones.
Trying to wrap things up,
and put them away somewhere:
the snake skin bandage
wrapped around the ribs.
There were no winning combinations
that could open that lock:
leaving no way to get out again
from being deep down inside.
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220616C
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When you have become less interesting
than someone having nothing to do,
and no one writes you in, or calls you up,
because you are not really where it is at.
You know that you are on someone’s list
with some sort of mark beside your name,
that makes you feel like shredded information
bagged and hauled out to the curb.
The trouble with fifteen minutes
is that no one remembers what it was about.
All the possibilities were erased
the moment you tried to archive.
It is never headed anywhere you want to be,
so it all starts to feel as if it is haulage.
Something that you have to carry around
inside those bowels, in your head.
When every original thought gets labeled
as being no more than a toxic byproduct,
not really part of any productive process
creating any sort of mass entertainment.
Whatever it was there was no hitting it off,
beyond incredibly uncomfortable moments,
where strangers practice maneuvers,
that end the same as duck and cover drills.
Other people seem to meet
for all the most trivial and boring reasons.
That unbearable rarified atmosphere
of playing their knives across nothingness.
There seems no more point as to entering
that contest of blank stares.
The streets are full of polite killers
ready to erase the rest of your identity.
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220616D
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Imaging that it feels something similar
to being trapped in a tight tunnel,
and never knowing if you will get out again.
Pumped the way a sex organ is pumped,
and not much more than a skin diaphragm
of rhythmic, steady, impulsiveness.
The flesh gone soft as vegetable matter,
lukewarm, flaccid and melting slowly
into futile attempts at escape.
Turtle shell and sticking the head out.
The limbs still tucked tight inside,
and lying helplessly on its back.
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220616E
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Whatever it is it is always in the way,
no matter where you chance to put it,
and even if you leave it out
from any sort of immediate consideration
it will still end up always in the way.
That is the way that it goes,
and it really never really matters what it is,
because it could be anything at all,
that ends up always in the way
no matter where you chanced to put it.
Trying to imagine someone accommodating,
where it isn’t in the way anymore,
but nothing ever works that way,
and something is always in the way
no matter where you happen to put it.
Might have tried to get rid of it,
only to find that there is no way to do that
and it is always in the way,
no matter which way you chance to turn,
and no matter which way you chance to go.
It is like that about some things,
and they are not even really anything specific,
sometimes not anything at all,
but they are still always in the way
no matter what you chance to do with them.
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