a midnight glance proves that darkness dominates light.
the void swamps whatever twinkle or shimmer tickles our widened pupil.
countless photons hurtle Earth-ward en route, as-yet-unseen in this space-time. we are but an unknown instant from some supernova or starbirth most spectacular.
a long-term symptom of this peculiar viral infection is loss of smell.
spewn from a particular asshole
smells like victory… heady, sweet…
the sort dogs wallow in rolling back and forth and forth and back tongues wagging in mysterious ecstasy, dreaming of greatness.
Mother Earth loves her children like no other. She pulls us close– an attraction lawful. No mass within her orbit resists the pull.
She is unmoved by leaps of faith. Flights of fancy or physics all land or crash.
Pandemics aren’t funny. Sure, people still chuckle. There are jokes. Some are almost good.
But the news novacaines my brain. I am desperate to let go some glorious, gawdawful guffaw that for one niggling nanosecond negates the numbness.
My family and I have been involved theatre and music for a very long time. Indeed, my wife and I met in a production of “South Pacific” with the Georgetown Gilbert & Sullivan Society (GG&SS).
Some rascal or rogue Stashed kryptonite Upon my person.
Perhaps in that fingertip pocket of my Levi’s, Or the underside of the spare button on that green and black plaid shirt, Or the tunnel in my underwear that no man uses I assure you but most boys try at least once.
taunts of bad hair boy-men transfix the play yard. mine is bigger. no mine. look.
there is no alternative channel for the cartoon among nations.
our smiley wiley has chased some tail feather off a cliff and stands now unbound by ground, animation suspended.