The Benefits of Oatmeal

Murder with breakfast, a sig alert for a fatality on the 5

before noon, then murder at dinner, leftovers again

as my heavy head hits the pillow-

Murder one-more time-a crime scene.

Alibi? Where was I? Lying low, while racing through thoughts,

I can feel my pulse-and stop and start-and I wonder,

am I feeling empathy? Guilty? Ceaseless. Peaceless.

Is this some sort of social

conditioning or mental shampoo?

We have all been too close to death

by now to tell each other Murder is not new News.

Another full round moon awaits

ahead. Some body’s namesake, a chunk off

The old rock.

There is a natural selection, population control,

denizens of indifference, disinterest, in de-

sensitizing the kind man.

Now Brand New! Tried and True!

Oatmeal is good for your heart.

It’s better with bananas-if you do not mind starch

All day strong on mushy trails while mixing

Cement for filling ruts.

Routines, like rituals, are set-up hopefully.

Warm and heavy, we live despite ourselves

simply not wanting to die.

The rest is bleeding out,

One drop per second

or all the mushy stuff

That caulks our gaps and seals our

fate, satisfied

Until tomorrow.

Painting by Willard l. Metcalf, The ten cent breakfast, 1887 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ghoulish

Zombies are us

Afflicted with somnambulism

We blurred the lines in pixels, likewise

Vampires infect

Simultaneously leech

Our blood.

Thirsting, vengeance

Immortality

Ravenous black birds

Eat lizards tails,

Caw and peck

And never become full-

Since some spiders

Escaped, hatching plans,

Lit motives and wrapped them in silk fibers,

Offers of choice, delicacies,

As if free

As with blindness

And nocturnal natures,

When one sense is absent,

The others fill in the blanks

With color.

Outside,

I found a world waiting for someone

Real

To notice

Nothing is virtually

Immune to nightmares, or others

Fantasies

Just beauty. 

Image Credit: The original uploader was PiCo at English Wikipedia (Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Catch

We may toss around

Love and Homicide

too casually.

Mutual attraction is limited, finite,

if a connection is made momentarily

And result in Love or Manslaughter

it seems too lofty in-

Designation or in-

Decision

To place fat Hope woven
round, a chalice.

There is fault or fissure

between psycho

And Matter of Time.

Those that do make it a-

cross feel justified as 'survivors'.

Meaning making, throw or drop intentions,

Themselves, proclaiming they be gods

With clay and Pray, hands take shape

as in For-giveness For-self-

ishness.

Since the air is thin and light

relatively pliable

around laws of nature, it was all natural

to let off steam, in order to play games

Sharpening
our serrated skill sets,
with the wrong weapons.
It was no duel, not one against the other,
rather competition can be
humbling,
when the ball is dropped.


Painting By Тиціан (бл. 1480-1485—1576) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Smoking Rope Burns

Rope rather than guns

I said to the man

-in America anyway-

As if he asked for some alibi,

as if anyone Wanted me: Dead or Alive.

Not that

I suggested murder or hinted at a

lynch mob-no soldier trained for Tug of wars.

I have no skin in that game.

Here is the Reader

with their eyes on the trigger

pulling out meaning,

hanging there, in town squares,

the tangled mass pulls at twisted truths

by yarns and feet, knots and nots.

Suicide is never the last act.

Remember?

A rope also saves lives, he said

depending upon the need,

in his all-

American way.

Painting By Albert Baerston, Belgian painter, Ghent 1866 - Gent, 1922 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This grace

There is no such Disgrace.
I do not live inside or choose to
put my dwelling things
away there.

There is Here to one else,
while I cannot touch it with a tip
of glance-on accident
these matters made solid.

Their way does not cross
my own,
or break through my gait.
Thier way becomes unknown
with wind and soft feet.

There is gasping, a vacuous horror
at the senseless flexing to hold nothing,
constricting itself, There,
the worst that would be too atrophied
to rest here.

I do not dwell in Misery.
I do not consider
my self
part of
Disgrace.


Painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, (1870) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cockcrow of the crows and a cockatoo

There are city dwelling birds

that are not your common stool pigeons.

The ravens occupy the east

side of the tracks.

The gulls guard the windy west.

On garbage day they all rise early

not for worms in the green box holes-

they know the small fries

are at the bottom of paper bags.

We had a murder

before our pine tree was felled

from illness. Yet, like serial flyers,

they moved to another pine,

preferring needles and sap

to the plethora of palms;

mexican fan, kintia, canary, 

the King and Queen and the Phoenix.

The ravens also get dates,

taking them out to 

happening intersections

and drop them so they 

get cracked by cars,
rolling through

while the fair gulls glide along

bellies filled with stale soft bread-

And I remember good old Fred.

Taken in and taught by those

crows

how to

blend in seamlessly-though he's a cockatoo.

They fly as one flock

rise and cockcrow,

the gulls sneer and squawk.

The city birds are not blind

deaf or dumb, 

winged with wayward choice

The murder

doesn't mind

one more white bird

or a cock or two. 

Image By Liftarn (Traced from Image:Odin's ravens right.PNG) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.