Irrecoverable
The governess would say in every dismal children’s book I shit out a read-through in a night and re-read through in a school day.
Only to wonder what wonders would await me on the cart or anything new The Librarian would spring up.
Mostly older recommendations making amends with donations.
I’d sift through them in recollection.
Unwisely praying in my own mind not to be found out.
Special shelves of sick-taunt-swells
And old hospital bed memories
And graphite stained left-hand even if I wrote it with my right.
If the only greatest treasures the ones I really loved were made by my own and edited by a loved one – and this is the recommendation.
Where does the Muse go when they are lost?
Only to create the new in another shade of dismal blue and suddenly the Hex Gears have spun out of control into infinity and shot past the moon where red stars are the only gloss on the world
Like the hair of someone – lying.
Bottle-capped and frosty mugs I don’t drink anymore but think about when my muscles quake and my joints creak and all my repeats play on and on and my regurgitation of new form is tiresome.
Block of bricks is the quick-fix i’d usually resort to and they still sit on my shelf.
Only for me to grow apparent in digital-expense that my expertise is not a pence left to hang on for.
Only my dignity is what’s left and I even I abandoned it just to get back to where I want to be.
Any new adventure I’d welcome even after adulthood
Cleanup and get-clean.
Sober or whatever. There is no real difference.
Chasing a dream.
I just don’t need the 3 bottles to make the strangers appearing in my house seem a little more approachable.
I don’t know how they got here.
I don’t know how anyone found their ways to old pen-name books.
I quilted them quick and forgot about the rest.
That was my childhood.
It’s ever sparse it seems to bring it up.
Kid-whatever-in-charge.
And that’s been a taunt to me for millenia.
Trust negated by immature prose.
Earner, in high-regards.
Not even a $5 gift card or pizza party could make me
A little happier to show up.
An obligation with crossarrows at every severity of the personal and private and my life is less stable and more high-profile these days.
Last time it took a mushroom in the desert.
No one was looking 2 years after at the kid watching their role model take the stage.
He never looked past my age.
Just my anonymous gameplan.
No x’s or o’s.
Gauntlet-siege-Castan Style is how I play.
Every sect a cross arrow and every arrow a rook and every rook eerily followed by an assortment of pawns that grow in gigantic masse until
The board is emptied.
And all of you work on my Team.
Squabble, dialects, and wobbles
In the obeselisk.
An old-word for tower.
Where the Boss lived below-the bunker.
In Bedrock.
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