chillingly gorgeous dusk of falldying colors.
a multiplicity of emotions.
i make coffee
and in my own way gorgeous.
the neighborhood rattles rips and wars,
i censor my lust and insanity
for purposes of making this poem scenic,
yet obviously it doesn't work.
i must revamp myself every few seconds
i flutter and flip.
how nice in this desperate dying world
to whittle poems on a sunsetting porch
and dream of revolt.
will this be our own cool autumn
whispered in a lustrous cadence
a booming attempt at transforming things,
where do we go from here
spilling our rage into a funnel,
it comes out the other end,
violence and war breaking out daily
we stay insulated and pray the news doesn't scathe us
it is not working
things are emerging
the bubble is bursting
the desperate the depraved
even the dingy are coming knives out.
i contemplate this changing of seasons as the sun sets.
wheretofor days of rage
we lunge we launch
we whisper escapades to the dead metropolis grid
we desire a voice
how far are we willing to go for such?
how desperate are we?
thought streams of a person without a country now
upon the downslide of that which used to try and claim me.