Collusion, a Ballad Stream

Somebody hacked my Instagram
while I was fast asleep.
Their Russian keys were clacking hard
to crack my photo heap.

How depressed they must have been,
how crestfallen, how “Sad!”
to find selfies and nothing more
(it must’ve made them mad).

So here’s to you, my Russian friend,
I raise my glass. Da, cheers!
Thanks for picking me, a plebe,
to instill minor fears.

Midnight Drivel

Midnight Drivel

The sphere speaks sun
and Universe is.

Year is just a name for a thing.
Age only a contemplation on decay
complicated by the number of subjects
considered. I was a spider

; you were safe in my web.
Hungry though I was
for blood, I
was starved
for conversation.

We watch the town in its entirety (my dream)
engulfed in flame. They build facades
faster than we can burn them. Faux suits
and ties. Artificial bus stops
and empty lanes. I fuel the fire
(one by one) with my many legs.

All the time capsules I dig up
are empty.

I have imagined you.
I have begun to picture
existence as a song.

Apology and Poem

To my faithful handful of followers, apologies for my absence (I’m sure you all noticed and panicked accordingly). I’ve been visiting family in friends back on the West Coast, which has been a bit of a trip, which I mean less literally than trip in the sense of travel, although it has also been a literal, de facto trip involving travel. Beyond that, I don’t have any real reasons for the lack of verse hereabouts, but I can come up with some fake ones. Like… I was having my portrait drawn by snails (they inched over water colors, through shallow puddles, and onto a canvas). The week after I was challenged to a pizza eating contest by a cannibalistic pizza. It kept getting larger as it went. Kind of a no contest, really. Anyhow, here’s a poem for you.

The Deadliest Cardboard Box in the World

The deadliest cardboard box in the world
is still a cardboard box. It has six sides,
like most boxes, and… well… it’s a box.
Just like any other box. That’s what I’m getting at here.

What makes it deadly though, unlike some boxes
(though not unlike all boxes) is that it’s not real.
It’s made up. Materialized in my head, like
it’s materializing in yours now. Your fingers
against its coarse walls, your nostrils taking in
hints of mold after it sat out all night in the rain.
You can still hear the water drumming gently
against your windowpane, the slow drip ’round the rain gutter.
No thunder, no wind. Just rain. We slept like babies that night.
Like young children the first night after sleepless Christmas eves.
But we left that box out in the rain.

A piece of unspent figurative currency
gaining interest as its walls fall away.