01.14.18

Maddening as is may seem,

starting over

is somewhere,

better than nowhere,

but no better

than anything

else.

 

These are all poems

written in the dark.

Conversations with shadows

and dust motes

and dried, dead salamanders

who never made the break

for Cry Freedom.

 

Never gave the time of day

to the orchestrators,

gifted to the random,

light, liberty

and the pursuit

of  hedonism.

As if there were anything else.

 

Body, blood,

pain , pleasure,

life death,

skin, or sever?

Guess we’ll never know

the binge watching is over.

Call the custodian;

the bin is full,

the party’s over.

 

Once there were unicorns here.

I heard their bones made tinctures

that would grant wishes

and somehow,

with all that power

we still fucking ended up here.

I think that says a lot about us

as a species.

 

Time to rev the engine up.

No time for cocaine;

we’re doing this the old fashioned way.

Caffeine and the blood of a young person.

The heathens are at the gate,

let’s give ’em Hell;

we have an abundance after all.

 

-HG