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stork daddy
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put simply,
i was tired of thinking.
tired mainly,
of the small and,
as we go on,
expanding redundancies of consciousness.
so i set about erasing it -
doing all of the things
the bibles exhort us against
because they are destructive,
and literature exhorts us against,
because they are numbing.
i was more interested in literature's take.
so in many a day that might has well have been all one day -
dark bar, corner stool -
smoky air ours and not ours,
and tell me about the son who hates
you old man -
with the raising - our first same old same old and then slower hands -
towards incoherence
and so understanding.
into a strip club then,
private show,
whip out my dick so she
knows i'm not a cop,
no one wants to take chances,
if they don't have to.
cheerful and i can forget, in the warmth of her face becoming my selfish feeling waxing waning swallowing star,
how impatient she is for my money
to limply fold into her wallet,
to stop struggling, be beat dead,
so the money can go to the sterile wallet.
and a casino. the endless hot drives to it, while my family and wife sleep.
one of these days cornflower butterflies rose from the fields
like flapping ash
and one splashed yellow
across my windshield.
just the law of large numbers, perhaps.
not good, not bad, both nor neither.
just bright yellow.
and that day i becamse what i courted.
offer yourself up enough,
large numbers,
and you will be hit with the momentum
of some drive.
smeared across it, your insides
just bright yellow to someone else
lucky or unlucky
to not be you.
lashed to the mast, you're carried
here and there.
at the casino that day i won seven-hundred thousand dollars -
and by some grace, it all felt
like it wasn't happening to me.
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060721
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