Said the Miser to the Minimalist

Come none or come all, You’ll always find us Among the refuse, reveling, Hissing pleasantries Through the detritus’ stench. Fetid fumes, Our mortality made real. Every choice, a risk — Made in the ectoplasmic Glow of garbage, Burning beacons. Eerie fires, they Burn like noon; So we squint to Avoid a blinded eye. Yes, we could revel In the dark — but why? Microplastic hiccups, Bloody burps, Dry heaves and sighs.

Smile as the acid rain obliterates Neural fibers or familiarity. Embrace the novelty Of your blindsight. Rejoice! Burgeon joyful tears to Suture the fissures In the wishing well. Feel hope haggard, clamor To forget its paucity. Where objective certainty flows Into lazy skepticism — The River Why Is our impassable Sphinx.

Inundate your senses senseless Until white foam noise Merges with the Technicolor vista, getting Lost in our Gray-matter-of-fact impressions.

I like to believe We lost our sight when Our vision was cuffed To the Wasteland, Trying to follow in Each other’s invisible footsteps. Smoke is so heavy Here it refuses to reach its Cirrus tentacles upward.

We were just silhouettes, Decaying minds, Chernobyl eyes, Blind to all But our refuse reverie. If we could, then We would fly through The thickness, Over the atmosphere of Radioactive reenactments, A Geiger counter nightmare, Chalky, fingernail Record scratches On repeat.