stiff upper lip,
thick-skinned baller,
rolling with the punches,
and all that other
factitious bullshit
the bliss of liar’s cup
is but a cup of blissful lies
dreams of
copious other things,
receding like melting wax,
into the past
fading away,
leaving behind the sweet perfume
of burning plastic and ammonia
hairlines
fissures in consciousness,
blessings of intermittent sleep
control panel fuses
all crisp, and awry of order
all correspondence
resides now in dwellings
other than original
intentions
settle for
smaller and smaller
portions,
pieces
easter egg fractals
of memory
“didn’t there used to be
something that went right here?
didn’t something or someone
occupy this space?”
now, quiet dogs
bed down in the
cold, wet trenches
stale toast and seagull meat
empty ammo box for one
in the center of the house
unseen earthworms,
misunderstood by
all the happy eagles
and fish
whole continents fall,
and yet, not an inch
of ground is gained
roll off the edge of the map,
and onto the floor,
to lie in the dust,
with all the broken grease pencils,
and first draft plans of attack,
torn angrily into ribbons,
and bursting into flame
siphon off
the last sour dregs
of wedding wine
no guest sits at the table
to taste it
it is useful now,
only as vinegar
for cleaning the stains
left behind
by revelers
who dwell in the
realm of the living
wines and cakes
are wasted
on the forgotten dead
celebration farce,
ersatz holy words
of hollow power
the gut pinches up
and knots
at the thought
of each new
sunrise
©2023 Kevin Trent Boswell
Kevin Trent Boswell 