Poems and Prose #118 - Sanctum

Nestled snugly
at the core
of the mountain of things
that I deplore
is a sweaty palm
that's hardly sore,
unfurled adroitly
to implore
some cloud-masked
puppeteer for more, more, more,
while eagerly slamming shut
every last door
that stands up ahead
and came before,
barely attached
to a mouth puking roars,
as, overhead, a rocky expanse
of heavy ore soars,
this hollow center
haphazardly bored.

Poems and Prose #117 - Frictionless

Free will compels me
to wiggle this pen,
just as it urges my heart
to beat once again,
and in the same manner
that I chose all my friends
when we were volitional
five- and six-year-old kids.

I hereby decide
to breathe more air in,
and I choose, too, to gawk
as floating dust specks spin,
my lips curled up
into a sad buffoon's grin,
as I consider the future,
filled with well-planned, well-earned wins.

Poems and Prose #116 - Epicycle

Tomorrow walks backwards
and transforms into today,
the moon revolving west to east
as my restless fingers sway.

So now I kneel and smile,
cursing as I pray,
certain that these shrinking moments
don't have long to stay.

Poems and Prose #115 - Eyed

Here, I lie,
gazing straight into your eyes,
as I spew the truth, disguised,
noticing your invisible sighs
as each "your" becomes a "my"
and every "he"/"she"/"them"
an "I"-"I"-"I"-"I"-"I."

Poems and Prose #114 - Accumulator

I grasp for an algorithm
to make these
disparate entities cohere,

aware all the while
that my mental digging
isn't quite sincere.

But perhaps I'm not
so two-faced as this
confession makes me appear,

my actions less propelled
by malice than just
plain, old, cowardly fear.

Poems and Prose #113 - Denominator

How do ya do?
I'm one,
the remainder of
three and two,
divisible by myself,
alone, not you,
and most certainly
not you.

I'm an integer whose
sole goal is to brood
over what the hell
it means to be some kind
of goddamn numerical glue.

Now pardon me as I
lean forward in this
empty pew
and let my stewing
continue
as I count until
my face turns blue.

Poems and Prose #112 - Quarry

Some odd undulation
  intrudes on my vision,
diminishing my
  rod/cone combo's precision.

And so I hold my eye agape
  and begin the incision,
knowing that
  even if my hand trembles
  and I fail on this mission,
I'll no longer be faced
  optically
  with the resulting derision.