The athletic megapixels of your facetime
Are screaming pieces of you in a bag
that let all the cats out of always
And decompose to a diminished fifth.
I keep pretending that my pinstriped
Oxford is not a prison uniform
When rarely do the guns go off at night
But like dirt is matter out of place
Inside and outside
Are all on the same side.
Hummingbirds foreshadow a more accelerated epoch
Of intrusive fanzines and lackluster managerial staff
Preemptively charting flight paths
To mop up the feudal remnants
Lurking under the floorboards.
Sidewinders ricochet out the cowboy hats of a
Duel cachet sporting the reptilian likeness of gringos.
Q: So, you’re a lawyer? What kind of law do you do?
A: Oh, you know, moon law, stuff like that.
Status update: In a special economic zone
200 nautical miles offshore
King of the sea floor.
More indents will not make a dent
In any cop cars in the near future but
The aggravated pustule
Responsible for retiring
Obsolete bouts of enthusiasm
Will soon surrender to makeshift galleys
And concede collective bargaining rights by proxy.
Bone marrow donations and beach clean-ups
Both can and cannot make things better.
Spare rib over iron lung
Is the typecast of what is gender.
Nobody will like you
Unless you’re good at something.
Homelessness and mass extinctions are not your fault
Nor are they not your fault.
This is the dialectic in which we’ve spawned.
Cruising altitude negotiable.