In heaven,
there's honestly
so little action,
it's a good night
when the grandkids bicker;
it's Christmas when
businessmen step
onto ledges;
it's a main event
when Mars attacks.
Bitterness
and abraded edges
are the hottest incognito
internet searches.
Transience
is like ice
in a delicious glass
of bourbon
to us,
and panic
is our music—
though you would not want
to call it that.
*
in the dark,
in the wet
where impressions interbreed
with postulates—
that is where we sit
in judgement,
while they
stand and sway
from foot to foot
for reasons
their conscience won't let
them suspect,
for want of a pot
in which
to piss.