Wednesday, October 14, 2015


I hunt poetry in the rhythm of family,
     Heartbeat of a home,
       Syncopation of life,
         Crescendo of triviality,
           Ebb and flow of want, need, have.

I am the besieged city,
the forgotten tribe,
the lost ark.
I am the laughter of a fool,
I am the wisdom of an old woman,
I am the abandoned generation,
     fallen in the crack between an acronym and a simulation,
       smothered in the fold
       that is the present
       in the tesseract.

It's no good as a script, they said. Too much punctuation, and no soundtrack.
You lost us already.
Too many words.
Too small a budget.
The effects are terrible.
It borders on ridiculous.
Next, please.

Station stop. On time. Doors open.
Closeopenclose. Openclose. Open. Close.
Can we make the next one?
Arrhythmia of the world.
Next time, kids.
We can wait.
Now, what page were we on?