over a field of I-should-have-thought-of-that-flowers

flies a morning blue bird of colors your

eyes have guaranteed never seen the likes of

but there are purposeful things to do

it’s another digging expedition

where in the squared off pit can we find

a bit of circuitry or proof of purchase

assuming exhuming bones that prove we had existed for thousands of forevers

would scare any sane archeologist dusting off the remnants of ourselves

building things for years and years pottery bits and wicker dolls at IKEA©

that look the same as they always have

and years and years

as if focusing on the past present or future will

solve the problems we should instead have painted

prodding a broad concern we should have left be

with sharp sticks like hungry ravenous greedy or bitter

cavemen and asking for forgiveness later there is a point though where I start to realize

that not only does everybody play the game

but most of them don’t even enjoy it

a bunch of sad fuckers

trying to leave me

sucking on the powdered bits of teeth but maybe this poem needs one spark of optimism

in surprise and knowing with a fat lip if not for the sake of balance

that it doesn’t matter in this sea of relativity and weak phenomenon

that everything is wonderful except

having to act like I care so I don’t seem

too uncouth and then caring a little because

they are dragging me down with them

and then not caring again with the copper-earthy taste of my own blood running from a busted smile