A distance more or less

There is no road without a destination,

For on the track of no approach to end

Adorned in signs for traveling instruction,

That has not even slight a curve or bend.

Yet distance grows and shortens by the length

Dependent on the method which it's measured,

Instead of being led by what's the horses strength

Or how the trek from point to point is leisured.

The waxing lights that skate around the asphalt

Rise higher with each mile left behind,

Anticipating feet ahead to halt

Where nowhere is antithesized in kind;

Not place or stop but somewhere to confide

Another pair of legs to walk alongside.

Scavengers

It’s pretending to rain now
And you can see the huddled crowd
Beneath the tree-branch awnings
As they retreat to dryer surroundings;
Or so they pretend

The drops they feel,
Splashing,
Touch the faces
That look toward the heavens
And pray for a placebo.

They are scavengers
Looking for the scraps of faith
Others left behind,
And with their crumbling hands
They pick the city dry.

It’s pretending to be prosperous now
And all my friends cup their hands
To catch the coins which trickle down
And pluck the coupons from the sky;
Or so they would believe.

They are proper citizens.
They wait for it pour
And would not dare to bother with
A little something more
For fear that they would ask too much.

And all that charity
Which by allowance they’re to live--
The means of their allotted sum--
Is a dream that if they buy just one
The other will come free.

I’m pretending to be a beggar now
And I can close my eyes and see the faces
Rushing with imaginary rain
Because their broken shelters
Can’t occupy one more.

And all the outstretched arms
Are to embrace all that we have,
As little as it sometimes seems,
And overwhelming as a needy child
Agreeing with that which we’ve tried;

Imaginary friends plucked from
All the molded faces
That I’ve ever known.
We’re pretending to agree now
That it’s just a little storm

Uncanny Valley, Goodbye

When not enough is left to utter
The syllables it takes to say,
Goodbye--
Disassembled and developed,
Laid upon the ground,
Like the girded gridlock
On your smog befitted brow...

Goodbye.

And what if I said, hello?
What if I said, good day?
Would it change your sunken body
And repair your sullen clay?

Your borrowed whispers,
Stolen, used, and pawned-off ways.

And in the middle of the murk
In some forgotten, shackled watts,
You sing in requiem for all the memories forgot,
With bloody eyes for virgins buried
To the consequences wrought,
And shut your eyes
Beneath the oceanic sky.

So long, little sugar-- We promise it was fun
You may not even remember us-- Or whether it was really worth a fuss
But hold on to your shoulders-- Before you sprout those wings
The days that passed-- Are only days that last
So long as they begin

A Dahlia Llama on Muholland Drive
Once confessed to me with cardboard sign,
It didn’t matter what the price was paid
If it concluded in a deal.

Will fuck for food.
Will fuck for money.
Will fuck it all, the fucks are funny.

She laid upon cement
Once coveted by creeks
And wondered what her lower torso
Had managed to collect
From stillborn dreams,
Parties missed,
And a lifetime of neglect.

So long, little sugar-- We promise it was fun
You may not even remember us-- Or whether it was really worth a fuss
But hold on to your shoulders-- Before you sprout those wings
The days that passed-- Are only days that last
So long as they begin

When not enough is left to
Reassemble what was left
Of tiny fragments left
To trickle down the leaning left
And right the wrongs of those who left--

You who were so beautiful,
So clean,
Were flowers picked over by all those vile,
Designed so elegantly to defile.

Those lacerations and your broken bones
Are mere results from all your stubborn charm;
A lip split open from the bite of crazed desire
By all your insane dolls
With nothing left but to admire
The preciseness of it all.

So long, Uncanny Valley...



Uncanny Valley, goodbye

The Devil in Converse

In se’enties style serenading strut
A passin all the pretty birds in kin’,
The feathered Stetson ‘clipsin crimson suit,
A whistlin Dixie blues ‘cross county-lines.

I got yo vice, I go yo virtues covered;
Jus’ gimmie sumtin beautiful in turn.
I’ll take all forms of major credit card,
Cash, IOU, or how ‘bout them sweet burns?

The color of his skin’s irrelevant,
He changed from black to white, from white to blue,
As easily as one might change their wants,
The shirt right off their back, or
(it should be noted that
the devil burned through shoes
the quicker he got ‘em)
them sweet shoes.

Whatever it was that they wanted most
Was certainly delivered on and more,
But happ’ly never[,]mind specific ghosts,
For more importantly
(hey Mr Lucy-Four,
for these times sneakers two
i’ll take an eight-ball, Lou)
was what he wore.

I got the thing you need but can’t fulfill,
He said a lick of lips and grinning sly,
I’m sellin, sure, and eager to please--still,
Those things that you call shoes ain’t nothin fly.
(he wore ‘em long before
they could be said to be
a timeless trend, you see...)

The devil’s preference for footwear’s Converse
To which he glad obliged and hipply said
Before he plucked my soul and filled his purse,
With one shoe pink as flesh,
the right one red.