A Season of Right Thinking

Oh banal eruptions! The boredom of the furnace is apparent tonight. This is a time for mediocre pleasures and barely shifting ideologies. I feel what you felt what they feel something before and will again.

Come up for air. Your drowning has been replayed in infinity. Just like naked eye visions these stars have been dead for years. And so have we. Someone change the channel before we lose all attention.

So, today you were interested in the making of atom clusters and tomorrow you won't care about the intake of nourishment. Am I supposed to follow along or just record your plate tectonic movement? Carpal tunnel afflicts the least of us.

I know that tides are of the moon but I know that I don't know anything about tides, your tides, your tides. May they wash some reasonings up on my shore. I will be the one clutching the sad junipers upland. I would yell to you but my voice has been carried eastward and you aren't interested anyway.

Dear Godspeed, I hear what you are saying even when you are not saying anything. I have decided to add my own inflection. Have a good morning. Bye.

I see the rotting carcass below
the twisted skeletal frames, the civil engineered decay
fingers of asphalt explode the horizon
cinders falling, a furnace in the skies
sit on the rusted hulk with me
as we watch it being born all over again

the blur of the coal and livestock cars
a constant drone to block out thought
I also like to lay down in the meadow and shape the clouds
this is not a requiem
I find funerals of eras most comforting
sagebrush high desert, five gallons of water

there is a limit, an end of the road
like a book read backwards, the protagonist shot dead first
surprising that this Kigali blood plant grows faultless over
massacre Dresden and rape Nanking, the boneyards of voracious mimicry
something to hear, nothing to witness
every forty-two miles a blinking radio towers lights the way

Come, reject the declination, rejoice in her voice lofted
when sunday mornings are no longer sunday mornings
an interval of planting, a fraction of zero
a man-made aberration of riot gear and chalk-fingered teachers
the dogs are grazing on neglect and the rivers washing themselves anew
this aero dream is reaching one hundred

there is a night where I, don't you
so saccharin and distant and unfamiliar are these ghosts
shouldn't there be some chin-rubbing by now
a “what does that mean” feels about right
the gospel of grinding, screeching metal has commenced
a spectrum of emotive ranging from boring to indured

somewhat palatable, often explored
I love you more than you will ever know