Poetry 47 - Cappuccino Blues

I'm sure these might-time cappuccinos
will amount to something.

If not, a dozen shitty poems
make a solid portfolio.

Please make the Static stop.
The pulses don't rest,
and they're high as a Colorado Castaway.

It sizzles around the heart in bacon grease
and gasoline.

Electric fires are pleasant.

Poetry 46 - 70 Sheets

If writing is anything like time,
then these seventy sheets might as well be one.

The countless files of thoughts
is just a paper ball.

I'm sure the purpose of all my words
is to lead to the next.
And I know most won't make sense.

That is irrelevant.

Poetry 45 - Chronobullshit

I am offended that everyday
runs together so inconsiderately ,
and laughs
at each pit-stop of nightly rest and death.

Everything fast-forwards in retrospect.

Time is the dog that shakes its cat friend
with every intention of good fun
until it dies.

It doesn't know what it's doing,
so I guess I can forgive it,
for the lives it destroys.

Chronophobia is an earned title.