And so hatches the idea of sending out anonymous bitter-gourd for cash, cash, cash!
Send as many as you like to people you’re bitter about — ’tis a highly confidential matter
like how you borrow library books
and wish you could stamp your name on one
and say, hey,
this belongs to me.
but you’d never dare.
And now you see someone else borrowing the exact same book, book, book.
Complete with all the creases you made, and with coffee stains from staying up all night
it hurt your back from reading over
knowing you’d left your mark on its tired spine
in her hands,
pouring hot caramel.
on vanilla ice cream.
— it’s what you know freedom and victory would taste like —
sweet and cold, sweet and cold.
Meep. I have been busy, but I always, always post something for Halloween.
Okay. You’re the only thing in my head right now and that, by far, is scary enough for me.
And no, this isn’t about the cat. Let’s move on from that.
i had learned to ignore the meaning
behind each lyrical mnemonic.
the bass alone– it pulls the trigger
to old, anterograde alarm clocks
the bass alone is an agreement
of the senses disturbed by its push.
cadence impulsively follows beat,
a nonexistent hook to false why’s
and true woes that break monotonous
inconsistency, the undefined
habits of defining anything
for illusory understanding.
the bass alone does not have meaning.
its excitement draws from destruction
of reason, curious cat’s tongue damaged
to lack guilty conscience for casual
excuses to interpret the bass
as a cue to unwind your gut feeling,
to replay the track whose meaning we’ve
learned to mutually love and ignore.
the bass, alone, is no more.
“May or may not inspire writing.”
It did, but at the same time it didn’t — at least, not directly.