The Book of Words

Chapter 1.       I am bored.

Chapter 2.       I make decisions. Decisions are made. Rude stars prance and preen, pontificate about equality and acceptance – while slicing open unripe fruit behind their backs.

Chapter 3.       A new dance craze is called “Walk Away.” Unlettered in Christian “In Egg Shells Is Day-O,” I bone up on Kierkegaard parables. They bring neither rest nor wisdom.

Chapter 4.       Random thoughts percolate, dissemble, cough up the do-re-me.

Chapter 5.       Lackluster DDS and Bland DVM swipe detector pens across my personal checks.

Chapter 6.       The megachurch atrium is crammed with wild-eyed wisdom. It evaporates in the light of day. You text me: “. . . texts are sometimes not communicated correctly.”

Chapter 7.       Remembering, I end the conversation.

“I am not such a truant since my coming as not to know the language I have lived in.”—Henry VIII

[RK, 2/21/21]

Eggshell Sky

I wake up at the edge of an abandoned flooded quarry.
Or did I imagine that?
A red rock quarry. Black water. Blurred because I took off
my eyeglasses.
Strangers.
That day I forgot to look up.
I guess the day expanded
even as my comprehension contracted.
The explosions happened and happened.
For me, the social fabric was eggshell thin and
blue as Caribbean seas.

Beautiful blue. Beautiful skies.
Blurry as faded photographs,
blurry as this flurry of words.
These erasure crumbs scattered across the floor.
This hurry to fulfill each day.

[RK, 2/21/21]