Racing thoughts in word salads
replace jumping sheep
and responsibilities

Mumbling accompniment
to my silence
is the elevator music
of rising dissatisfaction

I don’t even want to listen anymore

Place a plate atop the dowel.
Flick it around,
and around,
and around.
The plate is spinning.

Place a plate atop the next dowel.
Flick it around,
and around,
and around.
The plate is spinning.
Go back to push the prior plate.
Spinning,
spinning,
spinning.

Place a plate atop the next dowel.
Flick it around,
and around,
and around.
The plate is spinning.
Go back to push the prior plate.
Spinning,
spinning,
spinning.
The next last plate begins to wobble,
tilting,
flapping,
flying by means of falling.
Push it until it spins,
spins,
spins.

Place a plate atop the next dowel.
Flick it around,
and around,
and around.
The plate is spinning.
Go back to push the prior plate.
Spinning,
spinning,
spinning.
The next last plate begins to wobble,
tilting,
flapping,
flying by means of falling.
Push it until it spins,
spins,
spins.
Going back further,
the plate is losing balance,
the adjustments weren’t perfect.
Lopsided, elliptical rotations.
Push,
push,
push.
Maintain the rotation.

Place a plate atop the next dowel.
Flick it around,
and around,
and around.
The plate is spinning.
Go back to push the prior plate.
Spinning,
spinning,
spinning.
The next last plate begins to wobble,
tilting,
flapping,
flying by means of falling.
Push it until it spins,
spins,
spins.
Going back further,
the plate is losing balance,
the adjustments weren’t perfect.
Lopsided, elliptical rotations.
Push,
push,
push.
Maintain the rotation.
And here’s the first plate,
almost losing control.
Catch it before it falls
as the new plates start to falter.
Grab the lips and push them around,
around,
and around.

Plates and dowels
are raining on the stage
from unimpressed onlookers.
Adjusting the plates takes time.
Enough time for plates to falter.
The shock from the plates and dowels
thrown from the crowd
perilously shakes the petit pillers propping plates.
More adjustments are needed.
The boos rumble.
More adjustments.
More time.
More wobbling.
More faltering.
Sweat falls like precariously placed plates
eventually will.

der serpentinen tanz
mit das boxende känguruh
entartete kunst

le clown et ses chiens
l’un est andalou
paupières ouvertes
yeux ouverts

lanzamiento de un novillo
o un buey salvaje
y una salida
de la misa de doce de la iglesia
del pilar
de zaragoza

let’s all go to the lobby
to get ourselves a treat

aj fil aj nid tu dɪg θru
ænd slo dawn
tu əndərstænd wət ðə wərld ɪz seɪŋ
bət ɪt spiks e læŋgwədʒ ðæt ɪz
æt tajmz səmwət fəmɪljər
bət mɔr ænd mɔr fɔrən
ænd æz tajm pæsəz
ðə nɔstældʒɪk kəmfərt
ɪz sokt ən
ðə hɔrər əv ðæt vɔjs

I wait for the day
when I feel that I am the
equal of others

We find joy,
innocence,
and expressiveness
to be suspicious.

What you love
without reservation
we will ravage.

Your smiles
are the lady
who doth protest
too much.

If you’re not as filtered
as a picture on the internet,
I have to wonder
what’s taking so much
to hide.
We all hide something.

The optimistic struggle of the 60s
settled into the 70’s endless party,
that got tired in the 80s.

The 90s filled with cynics,
poking holes in the joy
while trying to find their own.

The 00s was ironic.
Finding a way to smile
in the scraps they’d been left.
And the wild west of
interconnectivity.

Now we feel the joy is gone.
Teeth are never smiling.
They’re aggression.
The best we can do
is laugh madly
at disintegration.
And swim in the broken levees
left by previous generations
as the rapids sweep us to
and endless ocean.
So we laugh,
because it’s loud,
and it looks like crying.

A festering wound
A feasting ground
This brave new world
Settled in the drowned

Tear the flesh
Enter the eyes
Harvest the organs
And strip the marrow

This is our world
Not the future’s
It’s not for those
We burden
With the death
Of death

This rising dough scabs
When it bakes,
I will be allowed
To enjoy the heels
The rest
Feeds
What bleeds me