rambling buttons

  the button has evolved into 

a noiseless vacuum for sound 

spilling out unconscionable 

silent lies           twisted in fabricated knots

                         clinging to the pasts of the

                         world    they are in nameless

   ways a detailed map

of the future rot of post-

cyber-space frontiers

the plastic encased        forests of the afterlife

                                     conceptual landscape 

                                     forbidden in un-digitized 

                                     scripts  

   the button has been transformed

by formidable lies arranged by

present visions of mankind

wrapped in napkins and placed

rather lovingly in the trashcans

of the once bountiful regions

formerly known as the silicon 

west.

Heavy

 the last episode of a particular chapter 

                               translated

I buried it

in the remains of the backyard

under the violet sky

as the moon looked down

disparagingly 

                       I tried not to picture its eyes

glowing against my back

I tore my hands at the digging

I cut the ground with my tears

I placed a stone upon its head

as the moon fell behind the collapsed roof

as the rising clouds peered up

I took out my hands

I drew a corpse 

into their rusted breath

uncertainly

 I wonder when times moves across the trees

dragging the clouds I wonder what will become 

of the hours it takes to erase the grass I wonder

what will be built upon those memories we have

almost forgotten I wonder how the glass will break

down and becoming sand I wonder what will the plants

be like that take my place

time to write a poem about covid and false memories of the past

 you could swim at the far end of the tent.     at 4am the temperature was steadily

falling toward the floor.    it would be hours until the sun rose about the spires 

that stood in for the trees of our past.     there were no sounds that could be made

into car engines.     you said it yourself      we are truly alone.

 

     there was nothing beyond the lake but the wreck of the next several years.

they reminded me of the isolation I had grown to know in the past.     where we

were going would we would need to swim.    downriver. we only had left one 

change of clothes.

 

the seasons worked in reverse until they were children again.     when the world 

would be faded at the edges with the liminal fragrances of the cathode tubes.

something haunting and safe.    to scare their shadows into abeyance again.

 

     to find what was lost they plunged their faces in.     they bit and tore at the veins

 

we drank until there was nothing

 

you wept for any thing else left.

on purpose

I am upstairs

looking like the leaves

falling from those trees

I can see outside the window

the motion of branches 

blowing in the wind

draws my attention

to puddles of red and yellow

in the street

 

a ups driver navigates 

a gray circle of concrete

the dead end turn

the bleak future straight ahead

he doesn't touch a single leaf