tears well
buckets descend
dreams walk the bridge
between psyche and sunrise
I am tired of the surface
the mundane, the conveyer belt of routine
to do, to do, to do
check, check, check
fashion me a bucket
slip me into a spate of tears
drop me below night’s horizon
into the star-studded…
It was spoken
in the angle
of the fawn’s cracked neck
twisting toward flank.
It was whispered
in death’s blinding act
the unseeing eye,
all life’s promise broken
in a flash of steel
headlights and flesh
meeting.
It was echoed
in the brown and white-spotted husk
crumpled on the roadside
…
We are in the eternal spin cycle of artificial intelligence, AI, and the algorithms thereof. The underlying media strategy of exploiting the sensational is not much different than pre-internet days when the mode of operation for newspapers and tv channels was "Whatever bleeds leads."
While I feel compassion for both…
Watch the life cycle
repeat repeat repeat
as another sunset cracks open:
hot sun on western blue,
descending into a river of colors
that soaks clouds, gilds peaks,
all radiant glory to dimming drop.
Finally the last smudge
of deep rose fades to charcoal
on this autumnal night,
a scent of apples
lacing the…
