Puppet Master
The cloud shears itself in two
but that's nothing new.
The bobcat in my guts wishes it was a wolf
who wishes it was a piano,
silent and prestigious and heavy in the corner
of an anonymous LA home.
Who knows why anyone wishes what they do.
One movie features a puppet
who wishes it were alive but I prefer the one
where the puppets wish their enemies dead
and so go about dispatching them
one by one through the night
in the spooky mansion on the bluffs
overlooking the crashing sea.
They all had it coming, in some way.
I wish a glacier would come crush us in our sleep.
Serves us right, bawls the bobcat/wolf/piano.
The cloud shears itself into a million pieces
but it's just getting started.
At Last No Future for Real
So all the ironies can finally fuck off.
Forever can all the gnarly bugs glory in eternal humidity.
Social media can die 1000 fiery deaths
amid a slight reduction
in righteous anger.
Uninformed opinions stay steady
in the spreading sulfuric lakes.
Every love goes unrequited,
every lover spurned and kicking dixie cups
down dark alleyways up to no good.
No booze
or alternately nothing but,
either way a nasty hangover makes bleary all creation
for everybody, forever.
Misty mornings that never end.
I put a colander on my head and smoke all the cigarettes I please
and feel finally, sincerely, at peace.