my sense of smell and taste
comes and goes,
my smell left me long ago when
I stopped smoking,
my taste is chemo related I believe
a side effect of treatment,
my consciousness has been depleted
from age and non use,
operating more like a vacuum of
space than as a connection,
my eyes to the world remain shut
and are brown for a reason,
my mind lives inside my head like a relic
yet to be discovered,
all angels and demons have been cast out
of my ancient folklore,
and have taken up residency on a variety
of distant planets,
my life ended long before it began in the mind
of my creator who gave me
a task but no desire to fulfill it,
leaving me in a Southern State where the
weather is most agreeable,
and when it is not, inside the house I go
to play with my senses.
19 December 2020
mornings feed upon themselves
from lack of sleep,
consciousness is an action
not a motive,
rooms fill with sunlight
as if they are sinking,
and days of endless living
are finally upon us;
cold permeates the skill
like summer humidity,
the sweating is a cold one now
happening in the evening,
darkness fills the room and
removes all the light
leaving only evil... arriving
shortly after our daily choices
and the Cappuccinos consumed
just from the aroma
of its brewing station and master;
one-by-one our toenails are clipped
and dropped into the stew
that boils on the fires of a mental stove
we left in the attic of the house
rented last year in Massachusetts.
19 December 2020
blank stares from seasonal dolls
standing beside a faux fireplace,
lean not against the wall behind them
as they penetrate my head
hoping to steal my private thoughts
they gave me yesterday
or the day before,
I cannot rightly say...
I don't know for sure...
my memory and all being
what it is today... and,
I suppose better days there have been
plenty of them I would swear,
if only I had a mind to
which I do not...
my mind is gone too
so you see...
but not the sea I crossed
when as I lad I be... a
merchant man all nimble and free
and swore then
as I swear now that
I will never swear again
in front of your lady friend,
my friend of the hereafter.
19 December 2020
we celebrate a holiday
not a birthday,
yet we go into debt for gifts
that few appreciate and
fewer still will keep;
we offend a few with
our religious beliefs so
our beliefs are now suspended
while theirs are carried around
like loaded weapons
during our hunting season;
we celebrate in public places
as they are now off limits
but privately... we can
communicate with whomever
and whenever we desire;
we spin our dreams on
wooden looms cast down
by our ancestors who
had no understanding that their
faith would one day be in question
and their outlawed children
would one day be hunted
for the crime of being
born here on this earth.
19 December 2020
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