Casus belli

It tasted yellow.

Woke up with it . Had to put it together.

Same as artificial light, that blaring first horn,

TAPS and organs now must stand up

to gravity, though the deaftone stomach resists this

verticality nestled in leaden refusal to churn over.

When focus comes on strong, this tangible sting,

bite of blink and swallow, is pointed.

And knowing the acid brewing

is not best for breakfast-as a rule-

according to the orange juice

and strong brown coffee,

I am delusional.

They rest their cases. The resting still,

they are bloodthirsty, at the ready,

palms rubbing, rabid from a distance,

the young smoking.

Look at the mess they made last night.

They are poking around for War.

It will be found. Instigators have a chronic itch.

Admixture to weak sauce with whatever 

is lying around.

And all make green, except mine, faintly

in flesh tones and tossed in peach stones.

   

A tree, like bravery, builds itself up slow

like this gathered heart, low and labored.

Rather not swallow.

The blue early bird, first notices me;

gorging on gravel and gathering sticks

to replace broken bones, he does not blink back.

I think could never forget what the birds taught me,

this was no dream,

the heart still beats itself

without a body,

And I throw up 

this empty stomach. 

Image credit By Sol Horn (4/1939) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Treading in week sauce

"Only thirteen more days"..."If I sleep it will go by faster"..."next week I will get my license"..."I can't wait until"..."not this week but the week after"..."are we almost there"...

"when will we go?"

(life lines)

Does it seem like a fair agreement to you 

that we are unable to read the fine print 

until the ink is dry and we've agreed to live

this way...before we know how to arbitrate?

(tug-of-war)

Now that I read in Anthropocene

dialect, it seems to say:

You have been given four thousand three hundred

and some odd weeks to spend-

In total. 

You have been granted just one ball on which

to do it All.

Spend this wisely-

there is no saving.

You may keep

Nothing.

Some portions must be traded for sleep

and eating your own words. 

Take it all in and then promptly let it all go

to show progress and more or less, make more with less

until you think you have the hang of It, feeling the slack.

(a rope)

It may read like a disclosure,

I will take you as I made you-the rest 

is what you do with It.

(a knot)

In portions, we cut corners and try to 

walk the shortest line in distance by diameter,

it all comes around-again.

(a bow)

May the most deserved rise on Sunday,

marking the start of something new

weekly waiting in circles of seven 

waiting to get on the short list they call 'Heaven'

while dwelling on the never do wells, sex sells

guilt tells All

(a noose)

All you get-Terms-It read, non-negotiable. 

You will have it all on this one ball-

All rolling faster as it passes apogee, Its gravity

growing as It approaches just two thousand weeks

left on this tiny sphered soul, daze taking toll

I roll over redemption until next weak. 

(a skein)

Painting by Paulus Lesire (1611–after 1654) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.