Seatbelt-Settle-Down
Collect Belongings. Exit.
Sit. Wait. Swallow Whole Bites
(while you exercise the right for them to relinquish your own.)
Check In. Check Out. 185 Miles to your next
(temporary) Destination.
Home is where the heart is, if you can remember where you left it. They had high hopes, you know.
Power On. Log In.
Fein intimacy (as though it still exists) until loneliness reminds you that
It never did.
Chime in as though you care, but already can't remember what you said.
Descend. Light Rain. 61 Degrees.
The buzz from the tele:
the magical glass house (with bouffant and boobs)
mouthing muted mutiny.
They Did It Again.
Breaking News.
original pen date: Sept. 2011.
Economical engineering stalks the skyline leaving a rickety tick symphony to sing with the birds. Tender timber tags along, awkwardly standing at constant attention. All eyes fixed in the grey-blue nimbus oblivion outside the edge of our motor coach aquarium ache with anticipation of the falling sun. Elbow Room beside Bel-Air, Track & Turf tempt road-sick rebels to feast as foreign fodder for housewives' floggers. City-hopping, hustlin' the road for time and protection to ensure immediately delivery. Skyline's signals flicker in a tonality texturizing the atmosphere, alluding to cooresponding intersections in a two-dimensional grid. Molehills seem like mountains backed up against the ticky-tacky shacks for their Things. Momma peaks beneath the drifts, relishing a little r&r from the blithering masses and the itch of them against her skin. Empty loading docks birth useless rigs, cranes hoist hopes which have become heavier than the emptied consumeristic cargo. Cephalopodic arms stretching thin, grasping green hills and chasing dreams across the sloping horizon, binge on beliefs and birthday cake- starving cities and suffocating synergistic symbiosis. Skylight warms her hands in sunset's wash and prepares the giants to ride the night sky, all a-twinkle to transpose danger to high-flying trapeze artists. Landing-launch pad for escapists to entertain epiphanous calls to eloquent epistles; coffins for the disease of want stack side-by-the-hundreds-side.
