In an age of so much door-stop wisdom in flashy colors and streams,
Profundity hides harder to recognize in tastes-great–less-filling sweetie ah-bites.
And when everyone’s grandmother publishes, words do not come easily any more, all lost in
Endless letters combined, re-combined and strewn everywhere, making
Nonsense seem sense or not even bothering, words without aching indescribably churning or heart-
Rent fluid affecting, infectious and ever-in-the ears and eyes inscription, just syllables,
nothing more.
I can’t hear myself think over the noise of it, the shrill deprecating humor,
Blunt, sword-slicing insults and chiding, scolding and deriding, nothing but chatter-ful ticks.
How to be mindful when the mind chitters and bakes under the halitosis heat?
Sweltering discomfort in knowing my life is in the hands of self-sabotaging
Zealots and bonzai bitchers and moaners, paraders and inert blabberers.
But there is some thing, something…
I see it in the piss-yellow plumped plastic medicine bag
pole-hanging to high heaven
with streaming liquid hope in thin rubber tubes of curative culture like an i.v. of satisfaction.
It’s there in the splayed legs of a stiffening spider fending off the drain holes’ draw
with the unfathomable force that those toothpick sticks belie as the pounding punishing pulse of the
thunderous shower stream pushes and the suction below pulls.
That’s the way it is with nature and words, that suspension between sense and salvation.
In the gaze of the other 