050816A
------------
That trip
is the sort of journey
that goes all the way
from obscurity
to demise.
Various stops
along the way,
for sight seeing,
with no real destination
on any itinerary.
Souvenirs
take up the spaces
of lost memories,
along with postcards
to strangers.
The headset,
when placed on your ears,
provides messages
from the dead,
along with new propaganda
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080816A
-----------
That map of lines
inscribed into my palm,
sent me searching,
for what I could never find.
I have followed the light
to where it leads me
beyond the edge of its promises,
into total darkness.
There was nothing romantic
in those types of relations
as haunted my passage
toward more forgetting.
Bathed in deep waters
where nothing surfaces,
except as the debris
of what it once was.
That vast silted river
of worthless thoughts
caressed by nothing
other than infinity.
There were no warnings
posted along those shores,
where I fell in,
and learned how to drown.
--------------------------------
080816B
-----------
Fracture lines,
threatening more erosion,
as to various remains.
Loosely bound up
in deteriorating bandages
of straining flesh.
Sampling a smorgasbord
of various types of pain,
despite having no appetite.
Knowing one has to eat
from what life offers,
as it offers nothing else.
Nothing I could care about
ever really cared for me.
The sorts of torture
that demand no confessions
in exchange for scars
being freely given.
Limbs heaped up
with a paralyzed finality,
of having ached too long
for something more
than unwelcome moments
and other formalities.
There was a moment or two
when I almost believed
that it would all change.
Such moments are so rare
they deserve better monuments
than I can make for them.
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080816C
------------
The measure is always more
than whatever there is,
and our lives are pulped
in the continual process
of being squeezed out.
Whatever there is,
is always drained away,
the way blood flows
in an abattoir,
staining the concrete.
We can write our names
in that type of darkness,
signing those documents
that always make us less
than we ever wanted to be.
Official punishments
are often not so official
as is placing a red stamp,
sealing any sort of finality,
as to inevitable failures.
It leaves that desire to retreat
to a more sumptuous gulag,
where one might hide
in various attempts
at complete anonymity.
The sorts of lives some have,
that offer black luxury cars,
and cloaks of invisibility
that hide nothing special
from myriads of prying eyes.
Perhaps it is all only about
a vague craving,
for caviar and other delicacies
as a sort of intercession,
that saves nothing from finality.
Nothing but a perilous chance
to escape from ugliness,
to where everyone pays
a pretty penny for any beauty,
simply to get away from it all.
Perhaps it all really ends there,
where everything that fell short
is being shredded to thin strips
made indecipherable and obscure
in their cumulative messages.
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