From a Strange Planet

Still, it's got to be a little scary a little
less than exhilarating to be no taller
than these windows on the 27th floor
and not as wide by a long shot. To be
not immortal but just a man who hits
an unblinking blue and whisks among
skyscrapers, your friends feathered,
winged or God forbid, self-released
from the life stationary, succumbing
to acceleration of the serious to thud:
hardly your sprightly landing where
you walk away from truth and justice,
not turning your back on either, but
next time, greeting both solemn anew.
Done for the day, you unloose collar
and tie, ready for comfort of scotch,
water and eager humans who find life
on the upright the only option going.

 

Where Have I Been

I have been in a little box in a little box in a little box
more little than the last being little and with me in it
rocking on my little chair in swinging glow of little
lamp wee little oil oil hot burning and flagrantly for
little a so so place lighting golden whits plasticine of
endlessly little tock tock mind. Where have I been?
In smallest of nested Russian dolls, all lacquered up
to help me shine on me little blackest long long days.

 

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