Stupid is as Stupid Votes

Never use the phrase “nobody could possibly be that stupid” in Florida. Ten people will fall out of the nearest palm tree to prove you wrong. And one might fall on you.

Everything

I’ve lived a “what was I thinking?!!” life. The only thing I regret is everything. . .

Blue and Red with Feathers

Superman looks in his closet and it’s full of blue tights and red capes and one chicken suit. . .

The Eternal Grimace

God smiles at me. His large jagged teeth glittering in the moonlight. His breath smells of decay. A Cheshire cat grin of disinterest. Fading to black.

He knows something. But will not give up his secret. He is no one special, but will not admit it. His power is only to destroy. That is practical divinity.

The webs he weaves come apart quickly. And Spiderman tumbles to earth. Broken heart or broken leg. It doesn’t matter. Breaking is the only goal.

I spy his shadow. Barely discernable on a cloudy day. As pre-rain air clings to human skin. A frown posed on unbelieving lips. The joke unappreciated.

This is the riddle. This is the story. This is the end. There is no smile. There is no secret. There is no plan. There is no shadow. Only the eternal grimace.

Poem Abandoned Last February

Through a tunnel of trees my legs propel me. The sun filtered through a twisted maze of leaves and branches. Barely patches of sky peeking blue around lush fingers of green and brown. The shadows are alive. The earth hums contentedly. Shoes snap gravel and dust. Barely visible hanging in shafts and stillness. It is summer and I am alone. Wandering freely. Unencumbered by the day or the hour.

The voice in my head flutters with the wings of birds. And the sound of scraping one hand against another. My eyes fill with darkness and light. The chiaroscuro designs of a closed mouthed non-deity. Lost in the landscape. My heart filled with broken twigs and twisted spines. And the buried bones of countless small souls. Who lived their lives anonymously. I self-incinerate and my ashes blow away.

In the wild I confront my illness and cautiously heal. An aficionado of the great indoors. An existential crisis is unmaking itself. I laugh at the sadness. A full-blooded, great-throated bellow. A heckle exchange with the comedian onstage. A oak has fallen and I am a witness. The lone sentient being. A testament to entropic desire. I can be happy even if happiness is fleeting. I can fleet. So fleeting is fine.

Through a tunnel of trees my legs propel me. The sun filtered through a twisted maze of leaves and branches. Barely patches of sky peeking blue around lush fingers of green and brown. The shadows are alive. The earth hums contentedly. Shoes snap gravel and dust. Barely visible hanging in shafts and stillness. It is summer and I am alone. Wandering freely. Unencumbered by the day or the hour. . .

“I saw the ghost of Ted Kennedy -- his pockets stuffed with aborted fetuses -- tampering with mail-in ballots.” -- one of hundreds of signed affidavits presented in court by President Trump’s legal team. Most were signed with an X.

Ah, Bach. . .

If it’s not Baroque don’t try to fix it.