The Fin of Mays

Oh Moon please hear my fondest wish
turn my earring into a microwave dish:
I'd aim it at the Pamir Knot
if I were made into a robot!
I'd even wear a pinstripe suit
made of tinfoil, avocados
cardboard boxes and dried fruit!



all the practice all the work all the refinement
days of misted memory of the grind of skin on stone
to wind up enlightened in a severely clear environment
the finest surgery and craft could never shrink our bones
raw life contains no taboos or requirements
but we all exist alone



arthritic deterioration
two words redolent with despair
they stowed away aboard me
in morning's katabatic air
considering dog walking carabineers
if I need to I don't care
Clip-on attachments suit my veneer



My poetry today consisted of walking with Lydia Grey
one kilometer two kilometers three kilometers four
this dog is inexhaustible — I love her every pore
she pooped in such a perfect place it was easy to pick up
walking around is quite a thrill for such a sweet lil' pup!



Nobody asked the right questions
so I have not more to say.
This is the end of an empire
it grows nearer every day
A cycle sociological dependent
on no thing
fiduciary systems, war and violence
bartering
unlike the many who've gone before
this one won't be ended just by war
but as we squabble the earth is aboil
as we ramp up extraction and burn up oil
so tell us Misters Presidents
Re: Your final monuments
would you prefer we take a shit
or completely demolish it?



It's something more than nothing I suppose
it doesn't prick the finger like a rose
but on balance I would say
you're better off with yea than nay:
A human craves communication
not just physical stimulation



head shoulders knees and toes what are those?
I've been obese since I drank and bloated like a toad
my muffin top is like an anchor as my bones inside erode
every day is agony and we all die alone



Ur's endless cool and cracking
like a boiling lollipop
her rotation slowing bit by bit
eventually to stop
we can't remember yesterday
let alone tomorrow
we muddle around, we work and play
and age brings pain and sorrow
but what's the point of trying then
if there's no just reward at the end?
truth is it's not about our lives
any more than a butterfly's
we're all just here like entropy
a simple physical fact, you see
hear my bellowing, stentorian speech:
Meaning is what you make it, peach.