America’s Paris

A fog of song surrounds us,

lyrics like liquid liquor-lights

licking crimson-tinged instants of time

off dazzling flashes of rhythm and symmetry

with flickering simplicity,

which flits across consciousness as a clock tick-tocks.


It all makes sense.


Then a roving whirlpool twirls and hurls us,

hurtling through crippling crumbling tunnels

and lame labyrinths of reason,

where desire, a red-winged snake-bird preys

and feral, frenzied specters pray

and festering spectators fixate and rain down

pain and shame with eyes like salt

too soon in wounds only forgotten by zombies

and other dead-hearted work-hardened work-pieces.


Silence falls louder in the mind than the ring of church bells.


Then confusion and delusion prowl in

and howl out prolific and tick-like streams of blood-

sucking what-if’s,

that cut the heart’s arteries like frigid bridge-blowers,

like rigid selfish cells starting wars to quell the tide of selflessness,

to let us lie our lives away just to survive.


They can’t drown out the sound, though:

the madman’s laugh left hanging in the aftermath of calculation

like a bowstring’s twang

or a dancer’s fluid hips slipping over the fringe of existence.


Awareness alights and dark eyes brighten.


Perception’s deception can’t hold a candle to the flash-flood

of a flash-banged habit blasting the blood-brain-dam to shambles,

splitting scripted lies in twain and breaking railroad ties

on which glide grease-stained trains of thought.


Here we are.


Between heart-beatings,

where narcissistic knots of neurosis dissolve

and monkey-fisted blunders somehow breach the bleak horizon,

where lightning sunders and thunder smites,

to find beauty in its futile brilliance,

and love—


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