(work in progress)

An enterprise of humans sing about
birds and bees with predatory intentions.

Hands raise in question but never chosen,
answers withheld as a coveted truth that
cannot be known.

Forsake the things that cannot be,
forsake the things we cannot change?

We are due inch by inch across the sea
below the sky, hurting ourselves.

Where is the mystery in that?
Or do you cast a blind eye with long shadows
to nowhere?

Unless you lay the clues gently while
sleepwalking in the pleasantness of the afternoon.

Do it at night, nothing remains lucid,
it gets lost in subtleties.

We get lost in the nuances of life,
we become no longer a dream,
we become no longer you and me or us.

Instead we clean up the butter of our bodies,
scrape it off the solid surface before it melts,
smear on toast with strawberry jam.

The quintessential continental breakfast
at the hotel of dystopian humor
you can no longer name,
after it sunk in on its own itinerary.

All the pamphlets laid out neatly and alphabetically,
outlying the tourist attractions-

the water parks, the horseback riding, the rafting,
maps to hiking and picnicking areas.

The backyards of defeat could not be found near these parks.

The moment we think it was lost it then realize
we never had it for ourselves,
a priceless real estate.



[Lately, I have mostly been inspired by the rebirth of Spring, the coming of Summer, positive change and nature. I am glad I am able to get something a little less bubbly out, but I am still not sure about this one. It is missing something… ]