Holding My Hands Out (And Receiving Nothing)

As I stand, scatter

brained by people

who make me sadder,


tantrums, tantamount to

a kick from Patton’s boot,

engender though


me, an accordion

of connecting thoughts,

sweltering: According


to the Census,

the oranges originated

from islands like Kansas


and Synecdoche, where

the osprey’s offspring

were bad at crochet –


like a Kaufman film

that makes little use

of a screenplay kiln.


The inept big-wigs

slam their gavels and trudge

in shit like pigs –


or at least that’s what

the papers sell.

But enough of that.


pat, pa-tap, pat-pat

goes my concave heart,

pat, pa-tap, pat-pat

with strings that string

a tale of perpetual inconsequence, that

pat, pa-tap, pat-pat

tugs flatly like a piano’s ivories.


My emotional vacuity mirrors the well

in which Plainview broke his leg.


And soon I, too, will be broken-legged.

And soon I, too, will be drunken.

And soon I, too, will bash a preacher’s head

in with a bowling pin.


Such is the case of someone whose pretense

is that sadness lasts in perpetuity –

as if that ever made sense – and that

their sin is another’s and not their own.


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