threnody;

I.

This bowing technique of chasing night’s

agency fills a mixed bag of modalities, a bag of

answerless questions, like how eager to be distant

are the words that get wind-blown off the tongue

and disappear like the sun when it’s sleek and setting

into the backdrop like an underbite?

Due to be stoked out by unseen angles.

A bag of parlor tricks and government-issued firearms.

­

II.

A sequence of staccatos became a dull and indefinite

silence when the balloon in my brain couldn’t bear

the pressure of each transformation quite like it could

when I was writing about The Bone Society and

ripening maturity, and how everything and everyone

everywhere rests on a fulcrum:

load,

effort,

transaction.

And then the great maw of time makes it all zero.

­

III. God of Pieces:

This nescience is irrefutable and overdressed;

I’m aware of what I don’t know, but will always

stare to try and see the potential.

Here’s to foraging.

Here’s to too many variables upon entrance.

Here’s to my least important self.

Here’s to my own, my own way.

Here’s to unencumbered light as it meets the iron gray.

­—

Maybe The Pilot had a point when he said

all of those reprehensible things about me

in his fits of drunken turbulence.

Everything continues to make sense the way

it’s meant to make sense, if that makes sense.

---

[August 14, 2023, 11:03 PM]:

Wouldn’t you also tell the ocean not to float away?