Static

Failings fly like arrows, and I'm a crackshot archer.

Missteps careening through the narrow spaces,

each train wreck departure

splits its target down the middle.

Peachy. Sane? Check the part you're

playing, like a beat-up, pitchy fiddle.

Rather than whittle away at the riddles

and proofs provided by all life's

diddling spoofs, I prefer

to crack them open

with a haphazard warning shot —

whether it flies pitifully wide

or lands shockingly bull's-eyed

is hardly any concern of mine.

It was about sending a message,

see?

It was about disrupting the reverie

with an inkling of jovial devilry.

"Why so serious," someone said,

and that delirious, painted talking head

may have actually had a point.

Factually, glad anointed ones

sit upon cushioned chairs,

firing ill-conceived and tasteless jokes

at the expense of your despair.

Somewhere in the stinking sea of our era

lies a vibrant, voluminous, untouched reef where a

happy moment might be felt.

A mighty shelter

built from innumerable clueless fragments,

once led astray by fruitless pageants,

who found their meandering way

to one another.

A jazzy dissonance colors the harmony

of that unthinkable collision —

an acquired taste and sight.

Your discombobulated vision

of its future may blur at first glance,

you may recoil,

but give us a chance

to parse out the turmoil,

to adjust the antenna.

With the touch of an expert technician, can a

truly beautiful, life-changing picture rise to the surface

of your inner flat-screen TV?

Something in the depths of the fuzzy signal

says you'll have to wait and see.