strictly for style

The flowers on the table are the colorful kind of dead.  The moon is a fuzzy orb behind the clouds.  The flies have commandeered the cobwebs on the chandelier.  The dining table has scoliosis and needs braces for its legs.  One of the lightbulbs is having a hard time staying awake.  All of the bookmarks have been shaken out of the books and everyone is confused.  

My mind is made up, but I have heartburn. The woman sitting across from me is made of light.  I don’t know all the languages she speaks.  A little radio is playing the tambourine.  What if the power goes out?  

We’ll sit here in the dark with glowing faces.  Until our batteries die.  We’ll tell stories with no endings and sleep standing.  The sun will get up in the middle of the night to pee.  He’ll fart and wake the neighbors.  Now the dog is scratching.  The alarm clocks are clearing their throats.

The water is cold in the canteen.  It keeps asking for a blanket.  The ink in my pen wants to be tattoos when it grows up.  I don’t have the heart to tell it that it will only ever be bad poems and odd doodles.

There’s a war coverage is postponed because the game is in overtime.  Fire retardant and flags signed a merger.  The president’s Twitter account go flagged for hate speech.  He can’t do a single pushup. At least the wifi signal is strong.

The guitar has a loose thread and it won’t stop fussing with it. A lent roller would never work where it is needed most.  Deep pockets and damp bellybuttons.  The screen gets further away when my posture is correct.  All the answers on the test are wrong, but it’s graded on a curve.  

Keep dreaming.  Otherwise, the dream catchers will go on strike.  They’ve got unions now, you know.  Doctors get migraines from hardheaded patience.  They abuse Tylenol PM and wake up groggy.

The janitor is having trouble cleaning the automatic doors again.  It’s always a game of cat and mouse.  Unless you’re the mouse.  Then it’s not a game at all.  Sign your name on the dotted line and try to keep the letters from falling through the cracks.  It’s hard to get them out once they go in.  That’s why cursive was invented.

The tea bags have gone tits up in the mug.  Read them their last rights, but start at the far left. If the phone rings, answer it in backward. “Talk to you later, goodnight.”  Once that’s out of the way go back to the script.  Tell them about the stars and other things that aren’t the way they claim to be.  

Aliens like mumble rap.  They listen to it in the future.  It’s easier to understand when you get past the bullshit.  Why don’t we dance some?  Not to music, to paintings.  To the color red,  a little runny and smeared.  Statues gave up their right to dance.  Unless there’s an earthquake or car that comes around the corner too fast.  

Typing the wrong way, arms folded.   Strictly for style.