XLII: chimney sleeper

the good news is on it's way
it should really be any day now -
I think it'll be Monday, because leave it to Now to make Monday's weekends.
am I insinuating that good news only comes on weekends? because that is not what I meant at all. the mailman brought me a letter today and it wasn't from the bank,
And it wasn't addressed to the previous tenants, It was from the City telling me good news is on it's way in the form of stolen sounds and sick days,
music bowls and free chicken noodle soup, technological anti-loneliness and temperatures that warm into chest pains and thaw out the window panes to let in the fresh air,
and the mailman.
The breathing manor sighs with seasonal allergy, the wood laughs at the idea of linoleum, and though the paint chips the thin walls will still stand
It's a new kind of dizzy Delirium detox, a sunny stillness, a pleasure in the poisonous pulse, a reaction that tells you, 'Yes, you are alive. Now.'
so Now, who can say what will become of us changing like seasons, bleeding like lesions, praying for a good day or
even just
to hear
that good news is
on it's way, and should
be here..
it sounds the way healing feels, and guess what
it's going to be free.

XLI: free love

we did not sign up for this.
this is not what we signed up for.
we did sign up for not this.
this is what we did not sign up for.
so instead let's get drunk off shitty wine and pretend that sun means summer
we can translate our feelings into cryptic verse because that's just so in these days..
the pigeons pick at the city's deletions while we peck at keyboards until our eye muscles stiffen, screens make statues of our bodies, numb our minds in unresolved resolution.
only the music keeps us - keeps us what?
keep moving,
maybe this is what we signed up for.
no stopping, make it work, continue walking - the winter will wait for no one
so sign up or sit down.

XL: the buzz

take pleasure in the cryptic,
bask in being intentionally misunderstood -
because there is nothing quite like the ineffable buzz
if you (don't) know what i mean, (you know?)
concluding an assertion with a casual, (does that make sense?), does any assertion a disservice.
of course it doesn't make sense!
the contours of an ambiguous attack are tangible: the preliminary pursuit
is usually followed by coy banter and the swaying of hypocritical hips,
but bathos backfires because scrambling for sensuality just
plummets into a desperate defense
- fall
into
the
buzz -
until an anticipatory anticlimax.
this argument leads to nowhere
but the buzz
was well worth it.

XXXVIII: daylight savings time

at this point i think i am inventing roman numerals
because counting up to infinity is tedious - the poems will continue to
spring forward: the weather cannot convince me of anything but uncertainty
and uncertainty is certainly the only certainty at this juncture.
searching for a clear transitional point is moot because
people are children, the best and the worst.
the best: youth, adventure, energy, hope for the future - simply put: potential.
the worst: immaturity, lack of perspective, selfishness - simply put: males.
just kidding. this is not a feminist poem. this is not even a poem.
this is
daylight savings time.
last night i lost an hour to the universe (i didn't even dream)
and in that hour i must have transitioned from a child to an adult
because i'm mapping out my future while my towels dry and the tea steeps
my bed is made and my bathroom's clean, my shoes are tied and my lunch is packed, my phone is charged and my bills are paid
and look, mom, i am you.