each day without fail
there is a long moment
when I remember

.

things just do not end (a literalist riff for now or notes for a poem maybe)

stuck deep and immovable it is as
background radiation one only occasionally now
tunes in but it is always there, can always be felt
still fizzing inside the aftermath of the blast
and what preceded that all now entwined and inseparable
so that now one grasps all of the clichés
and knows in fact that the heart itself is a brain
with forty thousand neurons too many

and it does not easily forget, though it fades,
as a plant denied light, unless dead,
ever awaits the return, ever feels the absence
as a presence, for something was changed
something that reacted and was changed
forever. biological, it feels, like sap or sex or screaming
or the echo anyway, which will not stop
and soon the second birthday and counting them all out
for humans are so easily broken

.

all the things
I really can't think about
just came back

.

moving with little differentiation from the pornography
to his girlfriend
and scarcely noticing
the difference beyond sensory enhancement

for there is some sort of wall
beyond which he cannot pass
which stops him and divides him
it is as if the air between them
existed in different planes
and he sees little of the forest
within her with its bright birds
its shrieks its filtered sunlight
its loam and and great age
and its songs of forests and feminity

 in any rightful world one would have to say
he didn't deserve this complex creature
and he thinks he deserves better
even with such poor ability to assess such value

.

The Trump Jump

so there comes this day
when Trump, all the shame
of what he is
somehow settling in him,
jumps
and the press are there
and the right wing dicks are there
and we are all there
and he jumps
but it's not like
the arc of some graceful bird
because halfway down he gets stuck, impaled
on a flagpole
or some other protuberance
and he wriggles there
and slowly dies
and his blood runs down the side of the building
in a big dark streak
and afterwards we walk home
wondering how long
they'll leave him up there turning black
having his eyes pecked out
by any starlings that happen by
and wish to consume
today's fake views

.

these ghosts
I have never really known
why now?

even the owls
have shut up now. it's too late
for everything