Turn The Music Up Until Your Head Hurts More Than Your Heart

A canary is binary because its yellow or it’s not, and if you have one caged and aging, waiting for the sweet evanescence of oxygen deprivation, why not take a vacation from self-contemplation and sing songs sung by bards unbroken, the unspoken words that render a soul turgid and urge a libido earthwards.

You’ve delved these mines before and deplored the exploration of fruitless exasperation, each nugget discovered another brother you mother handed off to some other, and your grimy face replaced with the more splendid race that chosen for its taste in terpsichorean waste unleashes research into cheaply purchased haste.

A web of crates, sent too late and unpacked and stacked into great piles of unrelated lakes, swimming in chaos a hundred miles from the nearest earnest face, so all you have to play with are your own toes and the throes of poetry thrown over your shoulder like boulders burdened by burgeoning self-hate.

In the great scheme of things, in the shower of memes, in the glossary unorganized and reading like a screed, the only explanation is an expletive deleted in the heat of fearing that repetition of one more lamb’s bleating.

Laugh with me now: the twilight’s last gleaming.

Thin wisps of smoke in the morning steaming off the top of your noggin and the sun also rising, rinsing the night’s agonies from your forehead, retreating, your heart in five four time beating, counting on the countless encounters that mire you in reality, fleeting, as that self-contemplation once more takes over and your rose colored glasses dyed the hue of your own eyes fog up and clog up the bog that make up your lungs as you trudge up another sisyphusean incline.

Birds of a feather flock together so long as their colors align, so if what’s yours is mine than for me to be a coward too I also have to be afraid of you.

And I am, friend, scared of the air we have to share, because my exhalation is your consternation and the music I’m screaming has no meaning to even me, it’s just inevitable breathing, solace taken in switching between erecting sentences and spelling correction, taking direction from dictionaries compiled by guys who died before I’d even been alive.

Tradition a glue stitching together the leather of the book that binds up this structure that has made us both four hundred words richer.

We Are We Are, Apethetic

faux-slam by Jason Edwards

I know this girl named Anne. Her last name is Alice. And Ann Alice’s analysis of our present political situation is that there’s too much consternation over the alleged conflagration from the perturbation of right versus left, paciderm v. mule, old fart versus fool, shit versus stool, tool versus mess, the eight years of republican theft and our third year running now of what little hope we have, bereft of choice cause the freedom of choosing’s bruising anyone cruising to a school of thinking that if we’re all sinking it’s because the boat’s floating on the bloated corpses of corporation-floor killing. Miss Ann is no misanthrope, knows we no longer linger in an Eden of cooperation, a nation as guided by Kardashian flashing as the cash passing haphazardly and ever faster between slick-suited bastards richer for bitching at politicians itching to get re-elected at the cost of respect from the incorrect left. Miss Alice strokes her toes in the sand and understands better than any woman or man we stopped living in Wonderland in a time long long ago and so far far away you might as well say it was all a load of fiction from the start anyway. Ann Alice insists she doesn’t know much about politics except it’s full of Dicks and Chaneys chained to their rage and claiming we need to hate a man just because he loves another man, or hate a woman who’s a lesbian, or hate woman who’s forced to get an abortion, or a family that needs to go on welfare again, hate all of them, while at the same time it’s no crime for a corporation to drop a dime and steal a man’s pension, perfectly fine to ship his job to another land. Ann knows all of this. But that’s not the point, she says. You’re the point, she says. You point and you rail and say we need to raise hell but if there’s a devil in madness why do you all stay sane? Complacency’s not laziness it’s just a tight leash on craziness and you can make fun of the 99 sittin in streets slapping white-boy beats on drums paid for from sheets of sleeping with the enemy from new-born wail to age twenty three, but Alice told me she doesn’t see your op-ed pieces and your talk-radio pleadings doing anything except singing to choirs themselves made of liars carrying hymnals where every song’s the same: the other’s side’s to blame. Your masters are baiting you and creating pollution masked as solutions but there’s no execution in the excruciating sameness of every-day hollering at white collared bothering while retro kids eat collard greens cause it’s ironic and not because it’s the only thing. And don’t bother asking Ann Alice to ponder a preferred course of action, there’s no satisfaction in traction if the hill you end up climbing still sublime with the slime of just another set of elites replete with the sod of the defeated on their cleats, no matter what message they’re bleating. Short of retreating, Ann Alice’s analysis of the present political situation is that we’re shit out of luck, because we can either keep beating our feet on streets of stupidity, or just not give a fuck.