Comfort Food

There’s some days

That piercing ring prevails

all systems suspend

no reboot, the icon revolves

splendid in perfect orbit

I’m shutting down

System overload

All the voices say nothing

so I will sleep

the dreams of the Dead

Shelter in place

wrapped in blankets of memory

Those most familiar and intimate

parts of your mind

Only your key to unlock

So we’ll pretend today didn’t happen

Sleep, 2.0 to present

Sleep, edition 1

Commences late evening

Stunted, premature

Trolling for something deeper

Sleep 1.5, 10:45 PM

patches successful

Escape the 11:00 PM horror

Where you dive this pool is deep

Where you find true expression

all fangs bared

your subconscious glares

annoyed at your pathetic naivete

At midnight REM and escape

to last until that hour

Sleep 2.0 override

2:51 AM wont leave you alone

Still awake or still asleep

No longer sure of either

The Clarity of Nothing

The time when chaos takes the helm

When disordered thoughts overwhelm

The moment where you are sleeping

through the time that you’ve stopped keeping

In jars, unlabeled

Like offers never tabled

and you’re no longer able

to find your place

in a world gone mad

Seeing we’ve been had

by those smiling faces

Filling empty spaces

You wouldn’t know were there

if they didn’t pretend to care

The clarity of nothing shines true

 

The Caves

From darkened hills of mystery

She proceeds westward

across the deep veins

in green vales

and forest

The earth unfolds her womb

and welcomes the children

to explore her depths

Like ants they crawl

across her scars

She holds no promise

that she’ll not close upon them

and swallow

Water Main

In the shadow of November’s remembrance

muddy chunks mirror

blood and soil of a hundred years

Where there were spilled

Over a hundred beers

The alleyway lies ruptured

pulsating arteries breath in the grey

and diesel fume

to the generator’s chorus

Three-quarter horsepower marks the time

While surgeons in coveralls and hard hats

rush to stem the bleeding

Tonight in their homes

at warm dinner tables

they will shrug off their heroics

and the city will limp on

 

Tools in winter

A spare and lonely lot

now the workmen have all gone

Carhartts employed in other gigs

Remaining pallets draped in tarps

and tools of a season

stowed in dusty corners

To be uncovered of leaves and dead stinkbugs

when grasses green again

Or instead, one may ponder

the fate entombed in bins

To ride the sides of trucks

contracting, brittle

and bathed in salt