Outrage at Eleven

fat little fingers
pointy nails, painted
with tiny blobby flowers

long wavy hair
eye makeup, heavy
on the lids and lashes

tight new outfit
puffed up, stretched
at straps and seams

Dry Eye Solutions

Oh, precious
put your helmet on before you take the bus
I love you too much and your soft skull
would never withstand a good hard elbow

Why don't you wear the black one
do you think you look cool
that's what's important
not what everyone says

If you would only drink your milk
I could stop worrying for once
eventually you could just wear a hat
no, not tomorrow

Dorker than Usual

Life, if you can call it that, was simple. Shuffle, groan, every once in a while throw up. I never had to think about those day to day life maintenance things. There was very little thinking. I suppose I was very sick. My memories of those days are spotty - lying on the ground, standing in a corner, slumped against the wall, and so on. Sometimes there would be a bright spot, maybe an explosion in the distance from shelling or a power plant going up. I had this general sense that something was wrong. Things just seemed darker than usual, and that's saying something given my world view.

Never questioned my motivations, okay. Chasing, screaming, kicking, confused grabbing; slightly less okay. Yes, everyone else was in on it. But that seems like a poor excuse for what, in retrospect, is likely a couple of hundred deaths on my hands. Those folks, though, you have to feel badly for them. They never made it. Looking back on it, I don't think I ever really felt good or bad rushing them, shrieking for blood, guts, life, and the splatter that goes along with those things. There was no guilt in that week.

It's been tough lately, there's a lot of work to do. Most of it is shovel and spade work. I'm glad to be alive and I've been volunteering for the local IRZO. There was some physical degeneration over the week of infection, but I'm working my way back to a semblance of health. Psychologically speaking I've got a shred of sanity left that I'm gripping to with a desperate strength. I've seen plenty of folks who never really came back from infection, their minds unlimbered by what they could remember, and I will not go that way. Late at night I wait for sunrise, unable and unwilling to sleep, and hold to thoughts of unlikely light spectrums. I was infected. Am I still human?

The Parentheticals are Unspoken

It's at last
the hour is past
close your eyes
dream a dream
of future dawn

Day's work done
night's rest begun
time has fled
down the drain
now today's gone

Again, fade
to black, replayed
blinds are shut
lights are out
the perfect con

The Love Poetry of the Bishop of Aquila, pt. I

My lips move to shape your name
Isabeau, the most wondrous sound
whispered by your silent wings
My heart like prey on the ground
subject to your love, untamed

How can we live apart?
I lose a little life every day
every moment we're separate
Though now you may say nay
still I worship your art

Come tarry with me, and dance
lose your regrets in the tune
A thousand bards will sing
and a thousand maidens croon
Lo, I say, give me a chance

Facebook Updates: The Rejection Collection

is a xerox of your grandparents doing it on their wedding night.
! And in this corner, the '80s.
secretly likes things you hate.
dances with criticism.
is your knight in shining armour.
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is proliferating memes.