Diptych with Happy Prosody & A Protection Plan
To manage the inevitable with aplomb

Tired of feeling crawled
upon. Put options signal
a crash, or several. Do I
argue for reality’s under
-pinning to dissolve?
Is faith in stability
preferable to the truth?
Covered with bites and
a need to scratch. I’m
learning how to observe
little moments of stress
o science of indifferent
self-assessment, have your
suave plastic strawberry
heads entering rain been
darkened by no conspiracy?

To massage the inedible with a plumb

crawl back doesn't sound
right. I have always walked
whatever pavement I was
presented. Came to. What
hand shakes more than
mine after each evening's
reach is gently beaten
back into morning? Every
stride a compromise.
The use of being
a type becomes
evident as device
to measure a situation
until someone just weirds
you the fuck out. That's
who's alive, and, dammit,
it hurts. You have been
generally conditioned
to give into futility
at a profitable level
but specifically
you'd like a lot less
than you're expected
to go after. That
makes you a certain
kind of asshole
with subscriptions and a set
of seemingly containable
habits. The habits become
interesting rather than
horrifying and you
feel befuddled in a
vague way that, like
Congress, lacks backbone.
But it becomes rote
so fast and you're not
really kicking yourself
in the head so hard.
When you flee from
the jobs to try
and not be that
person you've worked
without comprehension
beyond the usual
platitudes to become
out of fear of being
useless, broke and unable to
communicate plus paranoid
and sniveling with dated
pleasantries and a sense of
outrage so arbitrary
personal indignities
suffered are welcome
in order to manufacture
some base motivation
to maintain….shit.