Poems and Prose #102 - Product

The tubes detach
  from my neck,
popping as the
  air interjects,
and my curled arms
  now wildly flex,
with starving nerves,
  I suspect,
aiming for something
  far less direct
than a pink-of-hue
  insect
with self-surmised
  intellect,
drifting slowly now,
  a speck,
my face subtly
  bedecked
with the soft blue light
  my former home reflects,
a place I hereby,
  floating off, reject.

Poems and Prose #101 - Crunch

Conspiring conveners
encircle me,
torches held high,
somehow furtively,
their whispers clanging,
curses hurtling,
as I cower,
hunching turgidly,

my breath's cloud hovering,
my eyelids slowly shuttering.

Poems and Prose #100 - Favored

God's damned biases
paint the green grass
with an ebony sheen,
infusing human minds
with the algorithms of some
nineteen-times-removed machine,

analyzing data
we've already seen,
traversing all
the lands to which
we've too many times
heretofore, together, been.

Poems and Prose #99 - Burnished

Corrupted by corruption,
I abruptly cease
my trusting nature
and flee the scene
without compunction,

inundating all
surrounding structures
with reflections of
the hazy distance's
seduction,

reduced, at last,
to some hollowed-out
assumption,
perfunctory
its epoch-long induction.

Poems and Prose #98 - Miscreant

Derelicts, all,
they mill about,
enthralled,
regurgitating
rusty saws
as clarion calls,
beer suds sliding
off their claws,
hereafter on pause
from every
care and cause,
solipsistically
grunting ha-has
at every other's fall
and rise
and further fall,
standing crookedly
yet tall;
even more so
than gravity,
dallying by law.

Poems and Prose #97 - Mist

Into the fog,
I stumble crookedly,
mistakenly believing
I'd been forsaken
for my double-dealing,
and shaking,
I crumple to my knees,
overtaken by some
outside-in malaise
that's less distasteful
than it is appealing,
awakening some
strange anti-bliss
that's baked into
each jailhouse
and every single haven
for all the crooks that kill
and every preacherman
that's stealing.

I kneel here,
taking everything remaining,
raking my palms
across the pavement,
staring at the sky
the sun's concealing.

Poems and Prose #96 - Approach

Descending,
with the intention to amend
some simple saying
that solves everything
to my prior sentence's end,
I pretend
to bend my ear,
to hear the masses and their din,
to insert empathy within,
and send myself into
a self-back-slapping spin
that tends
to make my grimace
seem a grin,
and my chewed-up pencil
appear to be a fountain pen.

And when I gaze into the ground,
then I'll make my contented sound,
suspended there,
the dirt fast-coming,
intending, at last,
to find out
what's so goddamn funny.