Max, or Not

who knows?

if we timed it right
our death
could be
that winning selfie

nothing too contrived

oh heavens no!

death can be so passé
when left in uncouth hands

let us not belittle ours
with hideous allusions
to the failed attempts
of nondescripts
perishing in decidedly unscripted ways

plummetting unceremoniously
from precarious ledges
by mere heedless step

me oh my…

no, we must be mindful
when we execute the monumental moment

there shall be none
of those awkward bystanders
murdering our perfect shot
with their insipid frivoling

we must devise a protocol
to prevent
would-be interlopers

we certainly wouldn’t
allow ourselves to be caught
dead
unwittingly shooting a short video
in lieu of an actual picture

no no!
we might die
of embarrassment!

it will take some time
of course
for we must duly
study this art of dying

focusing
on symbolism
for that
is where avant-garde
persists

after which
by rule of artistry
we must wholly disregard

for only the tastemakers
can understand
what is the now

nuance
is of the direst importance

fear
should strike
only as an afterthought

when the masses
see this selfie
we want it to be them
they see

the truest mark of flattery
is mimicry

and pray they seek
to follow through

it should be so masterful
that they will be helpless
but to heed its call
and revel its irrefutable glory

every sense
must be aroused
if we are to succeed

such an audience as ours
will likely be as dulled
and senseless
as one would expect

begging us to bear in mind

that they have other sights
yet to see

we must take care
not to falter

yes

let this be the selfie
that launched a hundred thousand homages

i can almost see it now

a swallowed tongue

better yet
a severed one

this calls for
multiple exposures

[image credit: Raquel Stokes]

burning
sapphire moons
reflect the oceans

lost
to wept erosion

born
not witnessed

heaven’s happenstance
reduced to cinders

sinned

a godless earth
to nigh be torn asunder

placid pools
rapt
stripped eternal
hollow scenes
denied serenity

come then
mistral asterism
streak ephemeral
floods flashing

pray
submerge this surface
like a curse
of thought impearled

a prelude
to lunar requite

through inquest
strewed long
traced horizon

us
in umbral undulation
seeping hexagonal taper

petals once pressed
now paradoxical

a peripatetic lexicon
still lingers
in papyrus

spurring pulse

that precious urge

to crash
the inner sanctum
of the ichorous chrysalis

sacred skin
in glyph-wrought confines
spired
amid its muting
moored in chrysoprase seclusion

like silverine escarpment
in holosericeus cradle

pendulously presaging

crux
of impending compromise

this symphony
of decomposing

closure unabiding

[image credit: Jan Toorop]

note to self:
“get high”

note to high self:
“whatever you do, don’t get high”

high self to note:
“stop losing self”

somewhere
down the interstate
the sun will come
to bare

every burden
born of shame

to abandon
in a wayward rest stop

staring out
into the foliage
of parallax procession

and the unknowing reflection
only secrets dare to share

this day shall beg
no tears of wistful tinge
to mind its toll

strangers
rearranged to places

hope

reduced to expectations

fixed on anywhere
but here
for anything but this

what more had i
to give

when i was stealing from your
bag of nickels

dragging was my leaden pocket
just to purchase
dollar trinkets

travel-sized

for you

with a face of stone

i had one wish
to see you smile…

barrelling in Swedish boxes
set to rust
and silver-bullet

barely tethered
to the trolley
unable to cease

nothing
but the dead horizon

chasing lies
through trials
of error

maybe this time
walls would find the strength
to keep the front-door hinged

praying just to stay
the buzzing streetlight
with a rubber arm

high atop the jagged driveway
dusted winds
disheveled gusts
of pins and needles

worlds would
never bear to witness

gathering on rows
of mason jars
with green bean
peach and cherry

forced inside

pounding hearts
with mirror fists

pistols
kissed and tucked in tight
cried out fear beneath the pillow

and this
was goodnight

the last i saw
were furtive jaws of iron
winced with oxidation

littering the fields
of overgrown dried fescue
time too soon forgot

toeheads to the tune of two
triumphed
narratives told passive

stoically
now stowed away

where only ghosts remain

poison spills forth
from your cleft tongue
ravaging diminished thought

silence
poised for sacrifice

below
a fractured carapace

glints of malformative moonlight

desperate to compose a feeling

slowly separate like icicles
of drastic insignificance

drowning in the deconstruction

relevant
to only them

sybil
sigil
centric chasm

a portal
to impurity

presaging a vortex
of decisive condemnation

far beyond the grasp
of this decrepit sabotage

bolstering a crude comorbidity
that only cries beside her

left
am i to stir this cauldron
stowed away
by scrutiny