Jezebel purposely loses the little girl she
chaperones.
Taking great pleasure in watching her
face become stiff with desperation.
Lunging from concealment, scolding:
'Why are you always doing that?!'
So a confused cruelty can match up tears.
Jezebel "lost touch" with daddy for the
equivalent of a life sentence & blamed it
on her ex.
Let bedridden daddy lay in raccoon ****, as the confidences of a forest kept him company well over a decade.
Jezebel wondered why daddy didn't share
a box of chocolate when they finally
caught up.
Jezebel once said her ex looked at her like
a little boy across the room, that she
wasn't his mommy--that neediness was a
turnoff.
Which became Jezebel's twisted leverage,
her revenge on daddy.
Even placing a quote at the bottom of one of her poems, that celebrated the
breaking of a stoic (referencing her ex).
As she initiated an affair.
All stemming from the hardy stead of an
eighties photograph, a little girl kept at
bay with a dolly.
Right before Jezebel became daddy's
supposed power grab.
Sat in front of enormous plates of pasta
she had to finish, forced to separate
portion from proportion.
"Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through."
Are you Jezebel, really?
As you seek to avenge that photograph
through men, pose them for that power
grab.
Jezebel knows better now, right Jezzy?

An apocalypse has

always been

the anticipation of one.

It's how we reveal ourselves.

There are people petty enough

to cut the cord of a lamp when

throwing it away, so someone

else can't use it.

Now imagine the same kind of

person seeing the world go on

without them.

A storm is more than a

diffused gathering.

Its deteriorating conditions

occur way before weather.

It tortures tension with its

own fever pitch, like a fool

with room to grow.

A storm potent enough to be

G*d's blind spot.

When stars become

a burner account--

they attempt to keep

tabs on where they

went out.

Not understanding

there's no longer a

need.

That a one way

account, is a one way

account.

Making it the loneliest

it can ever be.

The afternoon sunshine was ambiguous,

& not for lack of.

It was from there that a strangeness did

more than parody the noncontextual.

Its impressions were so sudden in their

completeness, so altogether different

than what experience was

approximating.

Was that these impressions were of

themselves so overwhelming, or was it

that they overcame the ones in place?

It stood to be another Self, crammed

space & disregarded time.

It was a great sadness guiding away

melancholy, a record playing beneath

sunlit water--a terrible assault on

intuition.

A moment alone as water muddies,

ahead of a significant change.

Comes the high discernment of what

won't be suffered.

The very life of it returns to be  

mercifully obliterated.

A frenzy of trespass righted, where

lines weren't.

A witness stripped of sides, swears by

seeing--to speak the unspoken.

A warrior cuts to first loyalty.

Never denying what is, never settling for

what is not--all else is premature death.