260218A
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Hollow victories,
without any winnings,
paraded around
to empty grandstands.
Whatever is done,
was done behind your back,
tying your hands,
and drowning out your cries.
Overwrite it all
with flag waving ceremonies,
for secret missions
that are purely diversionary.
Meant to take you away
from being properly attentive,
to your grovels and struggles
in relation to skin flint reality.
A fabricated sense of meaning,
that can be peeled away,
and the product relabelled
whenever convenient.
The push back being too much
to ever over come,
in any alternating direction
of inevitable undertow.
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260218B
-----------
That big sink hole
that keeps opening up
to swallow away
your lifeline,
as it pulls you down.
You have gotten no further
than a teenage allowance
would ever take you,
given the impact of inflation
on your laughing stock.
That feeling of never having left
a lost era, errors, of youth,
due to not having what it takes
to buy your way out of any closet
where you fell in.
Still trying to scramble on
to the same old treadmill,
as if you can run away
from all the desolation
that always runs so much faster.
You can never catch up,
to what you have fallen behind on,
and everybody knows better
is all that anyone tells you
if they tell you anything at all.
So fallen behind
to accumulating bills of goods,
in the scraping exchange
of paltry offerings
that never tip the balance.
Even gold diggers keep distant
from such poor pickings,
preferring junk bonds
to obvious trash,
gone stale date, past repair.
There are no personal messages,
in among bills to be paid,
unless you misread a special offer
in some lapse into wishfulness
bordering on insanity.
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260218C
------------
Victim of a false ritual,
feeds suspicions
of a more malevolent intent
adding its scars.
Drop those judgment skills,
having picked
the wrong friends again,
across always dangerous lines.
Your perpetual weakness,
as to being too friendly.
Not enough of a beaten dog
to know better and limp away.
Knowing what to do
does not mean anything.
You score nothing in the game,
and there is no next level.
His ancestors,
pitted against yours,
on some other worldly battlefield
duke it out.
The temptation is to rationalize
about your ticket,
being on its way,
to take you out of an urban jungle.
That would be too much luck,
and he only wanted to kill you,
for no special reason,
other than seeing you fall for it.
As if to count yourself touched
by what claims greatness,
and then tumbled down the steps
of a bloodied pyramid.
His offering of the wine,
and your flesh coming apart
the way wet bread comes apart
in the beaks of starving birds.
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260218D
-----------
None of what you wanted to do,
will ever actually get done.
It is evident that they will not let you,
and all those seats are always sold out.
Always a sell out crowd,
of everybody selling out.
Particularly when it hurts you the most.
They had you completely blinded
by that false sense of reality.
It all seemed so solid as a rock.
By the time you could see clearly again,
it was long past able to change any of it
as to how anything comes down,
and down it all keeps coming down.
Whatever was being built up around you,
all came down to nothing at all.
Everyone disappeared
leaving no forwarding address.
A way to keeping you locked in somewhere
until it is too late to break out,
of taking a number and standing in line.
Your secrets scattered around the block,
all of your ties, cut off,
you have failed the skill testing question
after your name was drawn.
The paper you keep generating
drops into a paper shredder for reconstruction
into various alternate worlds.
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