The centrifugal force required for a total reality shift
has yet to be proven mathematically outside Schrödinger’s Box.
The street is shaking, but no connection has been made
between the rukus and the fallen cake in the oven.
Missiles will fall any day now. Or not.
The ogre with his pinky on the button is taciturn
like the stories of tired old Brahman
who do not believe cockroaches carry the souls of evil men.
Waiting on illumination is a time waster for fidgety types.
Prayers like breath fall from my lips on these days
when there is no wisdom found in all the same old oracles.
Some afternoons I dream of South Dakota and of compasses without direction.
People are so used to the flood waters that no one measures anymore.
The river is full of toxic ash. Bloated bodies that failed evolutionary regression
are coughed up at the base of bridges, get caught in steam boat paddles.
We’ve told all the ghost stories there are to tell.
Now all we have are these tales we tell as we live them
hoping the audience doesn’t judge when the ending goes awry
and the moral is not an uplifting one.
In the end, it is the shaking that does us in.