lying
in that pit of Poe's invention
or more accurately
hunched over and aching
in a typing chamber
or even more accurately
at a computer

wilting
like a flower
cut and neglected
parched lips part
to plead for redemption
or inspiration.

curse this fake sun!
it banishes clouds from the sky
but bestows false hope

artfully sovereign

it does not
beat back the cold of winter
it will not
dissolve
black figurative clouds of dismay.

not a zombie bite
or all expenses paid
trip to Waveland
nor even ice cream
could raise these spirits.

impostor sun
plays across the dust
on the looking glass
an effect like rain drops
streaking the lens

or the saddest tears ever cried

the Kleinsche Fläche windows
jump out of themselves
forever
desperate for a release
they will never know

halfassed martyrs.

here

there is only a sorrowful tapping
and mournful clacking
of clumsy thick fingers
on a lonely keyboard

a patriot with no country
dwarfed
by this icy dimple
on a vast flat Earth
and its taunting
inescapableness.


Smile, it's Tuesday!