Bound to Find a Match

Pucker pool azaleas and grand inquisitor kabobs for late lunch. The wine chalice dry. Your cilice wet with the blood of your midday scourge. The puppies in the box yipping by the sacistry. The girl by the baptismal font singing she can die in your rosary. All too gothic for my taste. I’ll just down this censer martini and make my way out the transept door. Something is sure to make more sense outside—in the heat and the hate. What there is of me is in the dry of the driest mouth.

So I strive for joy, Joy, JOY! Find I have none. Not even the inkling of a feeling. LOW, Low, low is more like it. So. I target an tangent. A screed. Try to work my way up to it. But. Deflation. Stagflation. The infiltration of an unshakable feeling that one must move on. Physically go someplace other. A place more amenable. A place that doesn’t like to bully-boy its way through life. A place that hasn’t ignited their paper tiger ideals. Ideals never even realized. So choose the most pleasing place to your sensibilities. One is bound to find a match—no matter how imperfect. 

Maybe the place of the de-fanged bully-boys. Maybe. A place put back in its place a long time ago. No longer pushing others about. This place is long lost.

The roof. The roof. The roof is on fire.

Watch those shards of glass underfoot.

What I’m Reading:

Every great power toys with the rhetoric of benign intentions and sacrificing to help the world. Our belief in our own exceptionalism is the most unexceptional thing about us.

— Noam Chomsky & Nathan J. Robinson / The Myth of American Idealism: How U.S. Foreign Policy Endangers the World