The centrifugal force
required for a total reality shift
has yet to be proven mathematically
outside Schrödinger’s Box.
The street is shaking, but
no connection has been made
between the rukus and the fallen
cake in the oven.
Missiles will fall any day
now. Or not.
The ogre with his pinky on
the button is taciturn
like the stories of tired
old Brahman
who do not believe cockroaches
carry the souls of evil men.
Waiting on illumination is
a time waster for fidgety types.
Prayers like breath fall
from my lips on these days
when there is no wisdom
found in all the same old oracles.
Some afternoons I dream of South
Dakota and of compasses without direction.
People are so used to the
flood waters that no one measures anymore.
The river is full of toxic
ash. Bloated bodies that failed evolutionary regression
are coughed up at the base
of bridges, get caught in steam boat paddles.
We’ve told all the ghost
stories there are to tell.
Now all we have are these
tales we tell as we live them
hoping the audience doesn’t
judge when the ending goes awry
and the moral is not an
uplifting one.
In the end, it is the
shaking that does us in.