fragmental

for the whole year behind
but one thing ever
laid upon my mind.
i gave it my all;
i lost it; defeated,
but not without hope,
i rinsed; repeated.
it made me neurotic,
sparked my synapse-
fireworks-
effervescent collapse.

trans-siberian pantoum

the realization had never hit me.
but now that i’m on this desolate tract,
i know without the darkest doubt:
this heart is inherently trans-siberian.

but now that i’m on this desolate tract,
i have no place to go and none to stay.
this heart is inherently trans-siberian:
a pulse yearning for no destination.

i have no place to go and none to stay
on this dreadfully impassive centipede,
a pulse yearning for no destination
across the final frontier of desolation.

on this dreadfully impassive centipede,
i have no motivation to reach out
across the final frontier of desolation:
the bleak realm of public relations.

i have no motivation to reach out.
a handgun pointed now at my nostrils,
the bleak realm of public relations,
is forcing egocentricity upon me.

a handgun pointed now at my nostrils,
wielded by a malnourished muscovite,
is forcing egocentricity upon me.
i am completely and utterly alone.

wielded by a malnourished muscovite,
the bullet hits me like a falling anvil.
i am completely and utterly alone;
there’s now a damn fine reason.

the bullet hits me like a falling anvil.
i know without the darkest doubt
there’s now a damn fine reason
the realization had never hit me.