Man w/o Secret

 

I stumble into the Apple Store
like a sage from Kansas: Cornbread crazy.
Pursuing milk.

“How can I help you today” she asks
from inside a little black dress that
shuts down all my vectors.

“Where to begin” I sigh
like my old man re-telling the time
Claire told him
to go jump rope
and he did.
He was Pawtocket’s champ
after-all.

He jumped through the hoops
w/o frown and foul word.
Gliding through the house
a man w/o secret.
Juggling the burdens we all find grave
w/an ease that came from above.

“Sorry to mislead you” I affirm
“but all the balm I need
is my own revery. Above the binary
where the mind holds sway
over machine. And not vice versa,
as it happens to be.”

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plugged in and captive

 

This won’t be one of my
funny ones ‘cos
things suck around here
real bad. Everyone tearing
at each. Voting in a genie
to rise from the wreckage
and make it all better. All good.
All nicely-white again.

I’m bad w/age
and remembering names.
I was never a fan
of kabuki ‘cos it
left out chicks and
chicks were half the problem.
Or the solving. Take your pick.
It’s too vague being real
anymore.

So we prance about
plugged in and captive.
Catering the parchment kings.
Their deep, furious churches
inspiring widows to give up
their wills. Form clay into soldiers.
Soldiers into assailants.
Assailants into assassins.
Then spin the wheel again.
The hostess assures
a two week vacation.
But only if
you get out alive.