On life.
In being,
we are pieceing together
li(v)es
from confetti disasters,
gluttons
both ill and curious
and tiny plagues of momentary
indicies;
flushes of rouge.
The good as rats on warfarin
are dealt with in ones,
twos, threes
but when they wash in
like the tides
even your lungs will fill.
You drown.
Contrast is lost in the froth,
in the very spit, of a
joyful monotony.
And then darkness drones
forth on a
lawnmower
taking up the grass and the
daisies too.
Goodness is better lost.
Mediocrity is mistaken
in a toothy grin.
