Broken Patterns

The pattern’s broken
What’s loved is gone, taken
Her faith failed to prevent her caustic breakdowns
or her eventual car exhaust suicide
Malignant fates—
sailors above deck heard the bubbling cries
of the unfortunates drowned in the seas below, no fear—
we’re all just visitors here
What if the vessel can no longer hold
and the sides leak, collapse and crumble?
Unlikable people behaving implausibly, so
he pays and pays and pays
She can’t get past the disgrace,
the human demotion, the disrespect,
this unsavory person, all of her personal contaminations,
and sickly, damned aversions
Her body possessed no magic
but enthralled him nevertheless
She breaks the pattern of his
unremitting sadness
He likes the fantasy she pretends to possess
But any day now, just to defy him, she may
twist it, worry it, stomp it, and
thoughtlessly toss it all away
Don’t worry about it
Life’s a kind of jazz, an
improvisation, so to speak, no need to worry—
you either dig it, or you don’t
No critic, he’d stare at a painting for an hour
sometimes with full appreciation, but
found he couldn’t say anything about it
except “wonderful, wonderful”
The dream is in browns, yellows or grays
peopled by those who say dreadfully little
Alone in a well-lit elevator that never stops and ascends
she hears their voices from across closed doors
645 years of the duchy produced no genius,
only two rulers of any ability, countless dullards and
not a few imbeciles and lunatics
She wears her pain like an old frayed coat
Now he no longer fights to win
He fights to make his victorious enemies pay
Anger makes him want to hurt them
Hate makes him want to see them dead
She was wrong about a lot of things
But she was right about you, bitch
He was just one of many antagonists
whose ambitions matched or exceeded his own
War is glamorous, heroic, holy, thrilling,
manly and cleansing
War is immoral, repulsive, uncivilized,
futile, wasteful and cruel
A potential competitive advantage can’t
motivate everything and won’t necessarily win
There are plenty of bodies to maim and
strategies are the same everywhere
Our victories are ash in our mouths
Buffeted by deadly events, atrocious blind customs,
humiliated with sorrows and incorrigible violence
they believe the absurdities told to them are real
That emotional son of a bitch, our leader
“I long for the day when we shall attack them with
an overwhelming force and annihilate them
May I live long enough to see them all hacked to pieces”


-November 5, 2011-