The Catch

Today I fished the depths of my state and snagged a golden catch.

It flops, pristine and uncontrollable, for it has never seen the light. Its scales beautifully glow, for they have never experienced the sun's beams. It is obliging, for it knows that I must throw it back at the end of the study.

How small this fish is--no bigger than a guppy. Yet it is fully grown. If it had more sustenance it would surely thrive and multiply. But it is beautiful, small though it is, and my hook can't hurt it. How easily it breathes in the dry, desert air.

I can't help but smile at this small happiness held in my water-cupped hands. It rapidly darts about, seeking escape. So I place it back in its home and hope that it finds food soon.

The Red Light

We don't want to spend our lives at a red light, waiting for it to turn green. We don't want to stare at that red eye, while our internal clocks superstitiously will it to change. Its gaze pricks us deep and sets our teeth on edge.

We don't want to spend our lives at a red light, while our minds imagine themselves ahead. We want to be at our destinations; we want our travel times to seem as naught. We want our engines to work rather than idle, to live rather than sleep.

We don't want to spend our lives at a red light, where blank fools twitter their noses and stare with empty eyes, where the corrupt world crookedly runs without us.

We were not meant for the red light.

We were meant to break the world.

The Heart of Hearts

It melted in the fire,

Whose rosy glow turned hostile,

Whose flagrant inflammation,

Violently whispered.

The blood boiled,

And splashed on the walls,

Staining the carpet,

Burning bare feet.

It was the heart of hearts.

It yearned more than most.

It was tormented and alone.

Its yearning heated quicksilver,

The thermometer broke,
And out splashed its entrails.

The heart of hearts,

Melted like wax,
Dripping hot and slow,
Like awful tears.

Its remains formed a pool,

That people trod through,

And scraped onto mats,

Or sprayed off with a hose.

Untitled.

Automated laughter echoes in my ears and sometimes emanates from my mouth. It sounds so recorded, so on cue, that I am shamed by the lack of individuality.

They never give me anything to remember. They never break the rules. They never show me a color that is singular or out of context. I have never had to bow my head in shocked submission.

Where did the revolution go? Into the alcoholic gutters, self-destructively sleeping while the greedy algae eats the stone. There are cracks on every sidewalk.

The revolution is dirtied now, soiled by profit and numb justice. We ran a hot bath, but the child wailed. We brought clean clothes, but the bum slept. We brought hot food, but the stomach had shrunk.

I wait for its caked-red eyes to open and grow clear again. I wait for its atrophied muscles to swell again. I wait for its strange posture to infect my soul again.

I wait with dread. Because on that day, I know I will follow it to hell.

Vileness on my breath.

Vileness on my breath.

Vileness on my breath.

Confusion's Clarity

Confusion has its victories,

In certain morbid stories.

But in this one it has finally lost.
Oh crooked confusion!

Your path is a maze.
But this maze is ended,
The walls have lifted,
The playing field is empty.

And I stand at the center,
Staring at the exit,
Afraid to take a step,
Wondering what mysteries it holds.

Your Traces

I hate your image in my memory. It is there that my longing sharpens and my loss burdens. My heart pumps brokenly.

You have no right to inhabit my brain, to invade my sleep. You parry my affection with rash judgment, unseemly fear, and bitter scorn. An amorous hussy, you devour my sensitivity. And cackle, lustily. Your yellow teeth are stained by use.

There you stand, a monster in drab. Cruel, cold, beautiful. Repulsing my reason. And so I forcefully shun every trace of you, fighting your scent from my senses.

But I will never forget your eyes that night when, moistening in the dim light, they watched me as I backed away.

Untitled

What will you have when they take it all away?
Gloom, doom, and the rotting Sunday.

Damn the Ritual.

Damn the ritual,
It freezes free thought.

Damn the ritual,
It predicts our acts.

Damn the ritual,
The government funds it.

Damn the ritual,
It feeds off our slumber.