Does America Need

Does America need

to be great

again?

What’s more important
than being great
again?

A dead star
is happy,

relieved

of burning;

dissipated, nameless,
in pure state

again.

The bullfighter turned
barkeep is still

wild

eyed.

But he’s old

and tried

and

won’t

test fate

again. Listen

to the mountain

resting
underneath;

dilate in silence;

never
be

late

again.

Obscurity

is

the

name

we’ll inherit

soon, pulse

of the

soil,

learning to

wait

again.

Did You Know

Did you know

a raven

left

the Ark

to ascertain

the welter, prior

to a

dove, and

never came

back to Noah’s

glove? I see

a black

mark

on the horizon

eave of

the

world

sometimes,

and I know

why.

This Is What

This is what

I was

saying

earlier

would happen

if we didn’t

sharpen

our

sly. Now

the eagles

of
our
reason

are fearful

to
fly.

Whatever,

there’s

a

new

application

to accelerate

our
waning.

This is fun,

our

talented

avoidance

of goodbye.

There Is No Next

There is no next

world, if you

don’t

relish

the skin

of this one.

Plagiarizing is

the funniest way

to carol in the wrong

holiday of your

demise. Lean

on
the
tacit

for a mood

of impervious

to disparagement,

or
tattle
on scars,

your relatives

will suspect you

of murdering

their

secret

with your

imagination.

She Tilted the Glass

She tilted the glass

at a 45

degree

angle, and

poured the beer

from the large bottle

into

it,

slowly,

lowering

the angle of

the glass

if

foam

gathered

too

thick.

When her glass was full,
she poured the rest
into his,

taking

sips

and swigs

until the levels

in both were

exactly

the

same.

The Mythology

The mythology

of

memory

wears a mask.

Every wandering

moment

prepares

a mask. This

isn’t the first

time
we’ve
rested

in a tomb,

or given our

swollen, ugliest

cares

a mask.

Let’s petition

the mind

for

a respite

from this.

Carelessness

with our last

ambition

shares

a mask.

I don’t know

which

reality

to believe

in. “Anymore

truth, and I’ll

go
blind,”

declares

a mask. One

of these days,

Tor,

you’ll

leave the

mystery alone,

recognize

the

impenetrable

glare’s a mask.