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.

Poems and Prose #95 - White Flag

Isn't it a tragedy?
Calamitous amnesty,
displayed unabashedly,
much more than it has to be.

Exasperated massively,
I gamble nothing, passively,
my spinal cord unfastening,
mastered moments vanishing.

Poems and Prose #94 - Glib

It might be somewhat disconcerting to learn,
at first, that ice is cold and fire burns,
and that a finite solution is often hard to discern,
what with loud and lonely, masked advisors
hopping uniformly up and down in an effort to be heard.

But if this has not been prior said, let me be the first:
A bladder full of urine is just as good as thirst,
a beaten, broken watch tells as well as one that works,
and a litany of facial modes show the same as slimy smirks.