woh Or: How to Kill Time Without Killing Yourself

Another mailbox 
with a lump in its throat.
Caught 
on the drive there,
like a virus catches on.
Important letters to send;
busy, busy, busy.
If you can believe it.
A barn so perfect
it could only house
endless flows
of stench-free horse shit.
A bit chilling to the eyes.

No rush. 

Melancholy 
beneath their angelic
vocal cords. 
Whatever it takes
to Ave Maria.
Dulce et decorum est
mori. 

Really, the point,
at your leisure please.

He doesn’t scare her. 
For how eccentric, 
how pathetically odd
he is
and she’s fine with that. 

I’ve sung this way
since paper pilots
wore leather flaps
over their ears.
I’ve also never
seen the animals.

Ugh, wrong notes.

You can let go now,
you neurotic
sack of...
Incredible how well
we craft illusions 
out of reality. 

You can let go.

I always thought 
the universe was
bigger.
Not to sound ungrateful,
but turns out someone 
left their plastic model
next to a set of steel bells.

And it hit me.
How did they
even get there?
Like ticks on your skin.
When did they 
cross over
and start biting?
They must have borrowed
some poor sap’s webbing.
Can't sit around on a 
branch all day, right?
Busy, busy, busy
those ticks. 
I'd believe it.

ONLY ON A TUESDAY
ONLY ON A TUESDAY 
WOULD THIS EVER HAPPEN.
I guess Thoreau
Never heard of 
“when in Rome.” 
Please, let go.