This reality:
not the bright-eyed
shoot-em-up gallery
they promised,
not nearly as nice
as the dusty menagerie
foreseen.
Orange, plastic caps
land in the doorway
of cardboard market stalls.
I wrote you a letter
I could never mean.
Trial and error -
the survivalist mantra:
blessed are the meek.
In another era,
closed captioning
open for grief.
Down hung heavier -
cycles more vicious
than obscene.
My rock-tied tantra
sunken beneath
a murky green.
Listen to the elders.
Their beseeching spilt
over dry leather cracks
and smoked spices.
Painful cinnamon
with a hint.
Piscine odored mist
upon the bridge
connecting feelings
to
one so bereft,
so clouded...
Do that thing again.
You cry while I hold you,
like the little baby I am.
Don’t look now,
but
wow,
I’ve never fucked up
so completely.
Oh wait,
yes I have.
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