honesty’s embassy;

I’ve come to find, for better or worse,

when I shut my eyes to fill my head

with sleep, all around what [mine]

can see closed, strung up like

holiday lights or animals on hooks,

dangling, is

­

all of us with our matching

memberships (for better or for

worse), and the… the

counterbalance, for lack of better

words & better-guided attention,

constantly adjusted with a tuning

fork so that our light may (just may)

spill differently;

withholding proportionality.

­

It’s so incredibly clear here.  But in the

end, the embassy behind my eyes is

empty, with crooked walls, off-center

paintings, chipped paint; void of

generational impact.  Void of me.

Renovated toward absence.

­

I should bag this heap up and just claim

the moniker—an honest man on

vacation, making tools for truth or

merely picking at the sand for conflict

diamonds.

—And finding the rough within my finds.

­

I don’t have much to say this Saturday.

I guess it’s been a while since I hasn’t

included any of my vices.