The crumbling

Three statues, linked

arm in arm, sliding slowly

across a poppy landscape,

never minding the breeze.

Body parts crumble and fall off

but their cores are smiling.

.

Pacing learned from

letting go the need to race

or linger; just a meander

of souls taking in a rotting

landscape, loving the slide.

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Shuffling

Kicking the shit out of

the blaze of glory left

from the spark of static

from my shuffling feet.

I don’t know what to do.

Every person is a wall

without grappling hooks

or even hand-holds.

We slip by each other.

I don’t know what to do.

Piles of paper and numbers

and letters trying to compete

with nature’s fractals

without any sense or humility.

I don’t know what to do.

A brief salute

Walking the same waking steps

knowing there’s little use fighting,

though the taste of a curse

is most decadent on the tongue.

Knees, wrists, neck, sanity all wobble

in the face of a bastard sun

who’d obliterate us all as easily

as it turns on its great ass

like a giant heading for rem sleep.

Dreams only come in the

resting moments between despair and glee.

There’s not much else to say in passing.

These things come back

Mean streets have become mossy

and I wonder how my feet feel

traveling over wobbly chestnuts

versus urine-soaked pavement.

The whoosh of a fresh fall wind

versus the hum of a subway

with its reeking hot air and rattling grate.

The shadows of trees versus churches.

We pray where we stop a minute.

.

My view is frost-covered and sparkling

and all I can think

is how I’ve become invisible and irrelevant

because I’ve made it so.