Crisis! Crisis! The brown shirts came through the streets in tanks, It’s a Crisis! Crisis! Crisis! Crisis! For public safety they installed an intercom on every block declaring, Crisis! Crisis! Crisis! Crisis! On national security grounds, they came to every town, saying it’s time to lock it down! Why? Crisis! Crisis! Crisis! Crisis! The order was orange in origin, coming from the toilet. You only need fourteen characters to type, Crisis! Crisis! The pastor told the congregation, you still have to come on Easter. This is what we’ve been waiting for, it’s the rapture! Amen! Hallelujah! Wall Street were not going down, tell the people the economy is still sound, we’re going to sell! sell! sell! Because it’s a Crisis! Crisis! Take the job, take the house, take the furniture. Take that person off of the ventilator! Its cutting into the profits! We can’t bring the prices down, that would be a Crisis! Crisis! Keep your social distance while your living on the street, six feet, six feet. Grab a book bag, put on your Guy Fawkes mask, throw your iPhone at every Starbucks locations glass. Grande Revolution! Nuclear WinterAt the point of breaking, the endless consumption is nothing but running to the end of waiting. Have to go, can't stay, the only things left are anchors and stripped grenades. Unswept stained glass still on the wooden floor waiting like it died for a cause that doesn't matter anymore. We won that old war over our heartbeats. A book opens to the ledger Taking account of what is left to be used, sold, or removed. Tape screams as its wrapped around the boxes Sharper reads, “This is where my thoughts live.” Pack it up in the truck filled with I should have been around. Scanning the crowd To find a face that doesn’t know the weight and the depth of what it all meant to tear in two That's the learning how. The tearing muscles, the tearing of a mind from the living room Where no one sits on the ornament furniture. Spilled a glass of my red blood on the white carpet, burnt all the pictures and let the ashes fall like a nuclear winter. On Friendship When the tears trickled down a burning face, you said, “It will be ok”, and held me When my feet had nowhere else to go, you housed me When the phone range, even at the end of the day, you answered, you listened When my face hit the wall again, and again, you said I wasn’t crazy When I reached out to grab it and missed, you held my hand When I wanted to die you said I had value, we can’t give up that easy When the days felt like weights on my ankles you said I was strong enough to take it When I said I was stupid you gave me a book with a personal note When the existential dread hovered over me like grey rain clouds you gave me an umbrella When I wanted to yell you gave me a megaphone When I didn’t believe in myself you offered me quotes from insecure heroes When I die, I hope it is after you, thank you Opioid Elections A hopeless romantic hobo hobbled hungry and alone. Examining ruins of payphones for a collect call. The future like an oval racetrack, round and round, to no destination, and now, no winner. Needle pricks in arms until it goes to the toes, slowly erodes, to sweating in undisclosed war torn Terradomes. The call came through to a friend, but in the end, all the pretend, to be new men, trip trying to walk up the stairs. Unaware, they are chasing a fading voice that started so loud. “The Candyman can, because he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good.” Back into the real version of the story, written by disjointed collections of disappointments. Crumbled up, thrown, then let go, like a balloon slowly suspended in the air. Before trailing off to become another dot in the pattern of the stippling Work from an anonymous author. Crayola Yellow Youthful Summer The Crayola Yellow pollen covered the car, there's no make or model.
Flip flops like hooves over the concrete sidewalks Linoleum kitchen floors Durable, never cracking, sunshine burning bare feet won’t survive despite past traverses over sand dunes for forty days and forty nights. Public pools produce a cacophony of children ignorant of their freedom Parents numb on prescriptions, contaminating the water supply. Long, aimless, windowless, rides along winding tree lined youthful asphalt Ignoring the Crayola Yellow lines for those only matter to mortals. Sex in dispossessed back seats at 2am, still warm out, they sweat. Drinking liquor out of stolen 7-Eleven Double Gulp cups filled up with rum and Coke and some hope. Inconspicuous thrill like getting away with a crime No such thing as time, Stephen Hawking its relativity, agreeing there are absolutely no absolutes. Staring at a tanned, hairless body in the mirror after five straight hours in the sunshine, peeling back for tan lines, only to find the number 16. The salty breeze blows a light linen curtain up and down Hearts hungry for crashing, healing water. Crayola Yellow door acts as an ascent to the light blue facade, blending together with the sky, is infinity.
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