The Game of Life

(the card version)

is 52–

you pick up more

or less

cards

(sometimes, too)

(depending how you play)

and perforce

arrange them by suits.

Birthday Suit

is freshest.

The hearts & love suit,

because…babies

(who doesn’t love a baby)

an up-all-night pastime

with in-your-face cards

stamped by cake

(whatever’s left)

candles,

dangly bits,

and

me-me-me

(me)

–the magic meld

that wins the hand.

Suit Yourself

is closely related

–the other red suit—

which appearance

(in the game)

could be marked by diamonds

(conflicted or otherwise)

friendship bracelets,

matching polos,

or promise-I’ll –buy-it-later

rings

–the strong of this suit

all about

you-you-you

(you)

Monkey Suits

follow

(suit)

a disproportionate sequence

of uniform,

office wear,

and ties-on-top

Zoom apparel

that goes on and on

(and on)

and so on

its paycheck-based

clubs

mandating dues

for the best part of this go’round

–as boring as War

and practically

lifelong

Good thing, then,

Suits of Armor

can also be drawn

–or purchased on Amazon

with iffy second-day delivery options—

since at this point

in life’s game

–you better have won–

outerwear to

trump

the luck or misfortune

of your draw

a blinded amalgamation of

all that’s come before

–piled high and brought to the table

(courtesy of)

me-you

hymns & hearse

–along with

pencil

(to keep score)

and spade.

under guise

–and in furor–

meet my eyes

in the mirror,

I’ll surprise

you still nearer,

when you Nod…

As you rest

~I will spirit~

in abstract

you will hear it,

in your ears

~like a lyric~

you forgot…

In a dream

* and a vision *

missing scheme

minus schism,

the unseen

side of the prism,

can be sought…

By the wise

> in reflection <

this surprising

connection,

will escape

all detection

by the Gods.

all these numbers

I have,

all these remembered numbers

. . .

digits that don’t add up to

anything anymore

Time differences

across which you’ve

gone missing

3 hours ahead. . .

3 hours behind. . .

your absence

on your end

I feel between,

This number

to cell

and that number

to land

these numbers

to live

to life

what if,

what if,

there is no see?

(anymore)

Nor connection

to be had

(again)

or heard

(asylum)

with or without

“hashtag 1”

these numbers are

just extraneous now

. . .

Litanies missing meaning

this day in September

and oh!

That day in June. . .

tagged dates

for Asters. .

cut and without water.

and sudden lilies, too

damnably persevering

a dozen I think

at least

(but can’t be sure)

since numbers

bear forgetting

remembered numbers

. . .

that don’t add up

to anyone anymore

 
 
a lark,

on one wing

I fly,

seeking

hunted trees

where unseen forests

grow in each branched shadow

in the manner

sad seas

hide

in

each drop

that falls from eyes

and crashes floors

(seasoning face)

. . .and reseeding. . .

 
 
Eyes are the windows to the soul

ergo Windows is too,

at the very least

the Super Ego

–think of all those pithy news stories

you’ve posted

(and only skimmed)
 
 
those fundraisers

you’ve shared

(without donating)

and petitions

you’ve signed

with a self-righteous comment

or two,

the Ego deleting that initial damning remark

calling for blood

since you never know who might see it

(just that someone will)

and you might actually know that someone

(or be employed by that someone)

best only Google

be the spyglass

to your Id…

tho social media lays waste to that

social media and the

intoxicating anonymity

of a keyboard punched alone

as you load yourself

with round after round

of tequila shot

(duck shot if you’re suicidal)

a weaponry

sticks and stones

you only account for

may break my bones

at supermarket

and names can never hurt me

–the one you enter

masked.

—