Tuesday, March 7, 2017


I'm all over the place, but
this is an attack.

Stop saying

are like crack;

everything in the house,
everything around the planet

is like that.

And I've
had it.

Even the way
I just can't stand it

is a feeling
I seem to want

more and more and more of.

Politics, science, religion, opinion.
Oatmeal, honey, milk, cinnamon.

Satisfaction's like crack.
Truth. Beauty too, then;

after all, we just can't

stop looking at shit,
once we've

begun it—now, can we?

It's hard enough
here on this rock, already.

Every day, on my TV, I overdose on
The grooves of Saturn's rings

oozing mystic sex appeal
via Google Images.

They're just so chunky, glossy; it's
like some majestic vinyl record.

What hypnotic
epic song is etched in there? I wonder.

Which old 45rpm
of god's is that, whose insanely catchy lyrics

go—damn, we're so 
caught up in the current 

that we don't even notice 
what it's been carrying—?

And when does the meaning of all these
such incidents—finally tally up to be

greater than
the single one which caused them?

And who on earth

makes those sorts
of decisions?

And then, who reinforces
them? by agreeing

so quick—
and repeatedly,

without thinking.