A break in the Gibberish

…. An unknown sea. My Yellow King, with red matted

curly hair to the shoulders, the obsession without a

lesson, pen sings in agony cursed with

a kidnapping sleuth. Take

note, not time; each line a meaning I’m

not guaranteed access to. Arguments twice

deaf to. She’s laughing at you. Fitz of frantic

third-eye fingering that reads like a dead drunk deity whose

dominion translates to paradoxical

absurdity. Write the alphabet again, then again,

AGAIN. Rearrange word definitions for six pages,

leave no key. (Paragraph yodel grubby lupus sherpa hill tennis creatin contextual kipper plaid inflation.) Become giddy in your pity, then

relive it revamped as loopless amusement parks. Keep

it dark as you introduce my sixth pen

today, fluffy nonsense bewildered in recompense

seething to appease the H.T. {I hate when you do that}

obsession. Have you got the lesson? One second.

Spits in your laughter, mid-banter, and

you have no control over the lantern’s light. Just

scribble where the guide yells

at you from, fill the writer’s block with your outer eyes shut.

Free verse, right?!

Sickening at the witches’ end, I’m not going back to

glistening stories. Fall apart kicking over shopping carts just to—

no one’s listening. Inner backlash

from ‘when you really think about it’

inside the blender wears gears into smooth lunacy. Alter scene,

fresh Carbon sheen, mean event horizon

hiding by the sea. Holy fat chance gluing the delusions

lied about to the eyelashes, skipping fourth passes, submitted

to other ashes released into over-taxed

minds, drowning in the toxic interest rate.

If it wasn’t for organizational purposes, my eyes would

stay shut, I’d let the ghost write in

my sleep and wake up with a real job.

Shit, the work might get better reviews. Whatever.

The focus is the kill count, pages, pens, the propensity

for folding at ethereal gunpoint. A long-winded

effort just to say I can’t put this writing

utensil down. Survival lies in wait in a limbo

shared with other uncaught sinners, yet claim seats

ahead of winners to celebrate a chosen

deafness, possibly genetic rot next to the allegedly

recognizable mental illness. Okay. It’s

recreational bleeding, needed like lithium to

power my place in space/time. Drooling with

milked-out eyes over an orange notebook bought for H.T.’s

purposes, but still her hammer *clicks* {you sure that wasn’t one of those black Bics?}

Her current gig is at a fever pitch, and her

employers are demanding results. I SWEAR THAT’S

ALL I KNOW! Despite all that, regather the infectious

nomenclature; dissolves a guard if not

paints a pretty target on the forehead for a Femme

Fatal’s cunty sick cousin.

Grandeur went seven seasons: what kind of

delusion is that? Can’t even keep it in the formula,

each line, signs of a weary dullard forming in

lieu of my dream mechanic job. The degree

at sea I’m sailing for, H.T., turns the currents

to pirate lore; somehow, I’m bored

to tears if they’re sulfur, yeah? A convent

would get a load of me. (bitter frigid donkey vicious farce tea)

But realistic fiction reads like horse

shit, like any god accepting petitions and conveniently wants your

Social Security number; flunker in the thick of

it; hell, maybe I’ll see you soon. Coon

loose to an odd temperature lost in some Team Venture

pixie colored, cynically doused in pure Louisiana Crystal

escapades. Buried in midnight puppy play dates and adrenochrome ash Wednesdays.

Hints of past flames provide

hot air for the next 80 days. Ways change caged bang, sycophant

jotting down detective lies—lotus Beowulf duty juice the mustard courts

their Scarlett Flame…. and it's gone again.

{Keep Going!}