Four Nothing

The Aleutian islands finger-tickle Russian
dreams of fantastic midnite tanning at the pole
The pretense of possession is clear
but wanting?
Green wavering soothes. Talk won't. Your vacillation
kills. The doctor and the patient have different ideas about
"cured".
Trying to pretend not to be boring
is like not living. Biography of shame. Scandal
in the neighbors' voices. The pages shredding.
They'll make it, like us, out of anything.

Looking out a window
from a dusty apartment, wanting to
go out but being too tired or not really
wanting to.
In the bar they kiss and share a pickle.
Better than lemons. An egg. With sulfur
and heat
would be vulcanized.

Sometimes I think your audience is a
          bunch of robots, too.
Pandemonium. Many demons. Minor leagues.
Even if it's wrong and stupid to, they play their game for love.
The instinctual narration. Statistical predication.
The search for keys. Collecting the locations of
every urban
fruit tree.

Enlightenment comes by frying pan.
The excitement, the visceral discomfort
only happens if you care.
Like a child. You'll miss it if you don't pay attention.
By sunburn. In the stands with a bunch of thieves.
And chanting what they can't keep in.
The fence between winning and humiliation
you can always see clear through it.