Prayer of the Wasteful

I left the page stranded, left handed with only a regular scissors to cut, disbanded as my thoughts curled up in an millennial flux. So I rebandaged, held hands with, the blank whispering paper, the maker of thoughts, helps find residence in the world, resonance to the swirled jumble of colors. Behold the allegiance of the bind that ties ink to page, blood to wars waged, father to son, needles to gauge. So when I faced the abandoned, left handed vacuum of thoughts, I apologized for all the time we had lost.

I begin again at the single press of the key, professing the mess of leaves as they begin to settle, nestled, jamming storm drains, clogging sewers as if warring mental strains, limiting my access to my own fragile remains. My bone felt chill as it whistled it’s way below cracked windows, caressing window sills in Siren excitement, mesmerizing, using, than enticing as it moves past the gate keep, and spills into the house detected, but unaffected. The chill rose and drove to the core, left bone aching for more as it coddled skin and rose follicles to begin their inner creep to revive heat, for vessels to survive. The chill settles and begins it solstice campaign, garnering votes from the republic for change, that Summer’s heat is in vein, all at once a ploy, to deter those from their natural state. I debate but have lost as cold numbs mind’s reason to cost it’s frosted flame now dwindles, flickers and chokes and coughs!.

I wake to a strain, to find warmth below sheets, that beneath them I bequeath an answer to this thin sheath, a holy prayer to invent warmer climates where there isn’t heat. A tropical mindset, left void of meaning like the empty set, circle with line passed through it like a one way road to the core of earth, to cook bread from the devil’s own hearth, the rebel of heaven, left starving in vein, now mainlining souls as he’s the only left to blame. When it rain’s he at fault, when their looting he’s been caught, when a riot ensues in the street’s of L.A., the devil’s been banging pots, unlocking locks, bashing window store fronts, setting back clocks, inventing hip hop, he coined alias before we knew it Beelzebub taught him how to do it. He gambled with Solomon’s marbles, and stole Zeus’s bolt, he taught English to behead and the colonies revolt. When it came time to nominate he stripped us the vote, told Katrina to strike, and the levies to bloat. As the French Quarter survived on the high road…


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