on auto pilot

I navigate.

steering ride

from back bucket

–I ‘m very critical

(in hind sight)

total horizon obscured

 
 
Instead of mopping

what lay beneath,

I painted underfoot

–no scrub, just brush—

–not nail, but soul—

detailing in

tended topography,

I rounded corners

my Technicolor toes

tipping

–traps unsprung–

when momentum seemed to fail

in lieu of dusting

grit, I kept it

distributing feathers

in

sweeping mimicry

–as light as hope and

–thrilling as wind and

–detached as the bird

from tale

we’re plucked

foregoing white

wash

I dyed

–you heard?

that wool that gathered

every day

camouflaging stain so

blinders complimented

perception and

vertigo impressions

labeled: upside down

and

I skipped packing

up

good

(s)

boxed instead the

(bad)

the

space surrounding

. . .things

–amassing containers

in  public storage, I

(promptly lost the key too

I listen to your smile

–hear it Doppler in the void—

touching your pain

–almost ruefully

–almost tenderly

funny bone pulsing high Q

I see your teeth

(polished w grit)

yell: oW!

(and at length)

I smell your doubt,

too–

in swallow

after

swallow–

the scent of you

indiscernible

–in all these carved

pathways

–annihilating

my memory.

no one-armed banned it

I kept weapons…

why not, it’s my constitutional right

–and ya gotta look after your constitution

(with mandatory health care that suits better than fine)

trigger-pullers

that even with the safety on,

can

.point.

push

or

pray,

and when engaged

can bash in

hope chest

(like that swinger Tarzan)

crammed with whimsical and eclectic items

sum of witch

are quite perishable

(rotten waffles)

others

made out of paper mache boulders

(fragile strength and pseudo stone wall)

still others

just black

(surprisingly Goth for a beach blanket bimbo)

incomplete, incalculable equations

I labor over every day,

and these are breakfast choices, too,

–nothing says “good morning” quite like uncertainty, I never say–

and the surfeit spills

into breadbasket I

often use

as a heavy bag

givin’ it the old 1-2 but never 3 because why

do that to myself?

(see:  a-4-mentioned less than 3 reference which X factor is greater )

Y?

near the

bottomless pit

that accommodates my

ground beaters

–uprights

compromised by

beggin’ bones

the

oh-so-tender future veal

I save for dogs that circle back.

I bought

the excuses

I gave

(in a rush)

for Christmas post

pone

meant so corny,

dontcha think?

(slow conclusion)

I rapped

them up

in flowery prose

(colored purple)

and

(watermarked)

paper

inked blue

–w so many strings

attached–

I recycled

surprisingly few

accents

hued

red

&

green

.

 
as days grow short

you have to wonder. . .

will it be sudden and unexpected?

long and lingering?

peaceful or terrifying?

–the only certainties—

you can’t love without losing

–you can’t live without dying.

there’s a me

I can’t see–

who’s

Wholly Spirit

♥

there’s the

I

around whom I orbit

(too much)

the Sun

♥

then there’s

myself

–who I hope you perceive

–and wish that I were

(yet already am)

an imagery complete

–God

♥