you will miss out on everything good in this world, because you pay no mind to anything, unless it makes you feel intense pleasure, within the first few seconds of your coming into contact with it
but, most things that are worth a fractional damn take time to comprehend
only camouflage, disguises, and baited traps are appealing upon the first, hurried look
you lack the patience for anything of depth; the slow, patient tempo, the subtle building up of tension
you are a toaster pastry junkie, surrounded by strange, delectable flavors which are unknown to you
blackberry brioche bread pudding might not be your cup of Earl Grey, but it’s at least something new
you’d have to slow down enough to try it, and that means it’s never going to happen
you’d much rather stage a five-lawyer defense, arguing that you already tried it, years ago, when you know damn well that you’ve never even heard of it
but, you’ll swear… you didn’t like it back then, even though a four-star chef flew in from Paris just to make it for you
therefore, this one couldn’t possibly be any better
you’d prefer to spend fifteen minutes trying to convince everyone that you had something just like it, (only far superior to it in every way) for breakfast
it doesn’t matter that everyone in the room saw you, walking out of the shop this morning, with a dozen doughnuts and a coffee
it’s more fun for you to say that you’re allergic to blackberries, even though you know good and well that you’re not
rather than simply forking off a little nibble, and politely giving it a taste, we must submit to your twenty-five minute tirade, lambasting us for being so foolish, as to believe that we were actually eating what we thought we were eating
you so kindly break it down for us, in very small words and short sentences, that if it wasn’t made by Louis XVI himself, in the bathtub of Marie Antoinette, then it’s not actually a real blackberry brioche bread pudding, and it’s technically only a “sparkling Viennoiserie,” despite your having learned that term only half an hour ago, while eavesdropping on the waiter at the next table, thinking nobody else heard it
but, by the time you have finished making your ridiculous and utterly pointless case, the rest of us have cleaned our plates, paid the bill, and quietly fucked off, while you were busy looking at your reflection in the silverware
and, even if it’s embarrassing, it’s still the gospel truth… I used to collect amnesias, but now, I’ve given all that up; gave the whole set back to her majesty, the queen
and now, there’s so much knowledge, it won’t even fit on the milk cartons
but, the juice is much more slippery, on the other side of town
if we’re really telling all, there are only sharks in the sea
each bite, delicious sadness, if you must know
let’s be totally clear about all of this,
we’ve grown far too close to one another to stop lying to ourselves, now
the party favor wasn’t punished for passing itself around, but for passing itself off as a thing all nailed down
let your hairless cats hang loose, and slip into something nauseating
it ruins the texture of the pudding, if you don’t bleed it out just right
so, dish out the starchy, fat parts of the story, so you can pick up a new one, down at your favorite food truck
give it all away before midnight, and the fifth is free
not to burst any bubbles, but the snowman isn’t actually made of lunar cheese
and, all that rain is fake; it’s really nothing more than water
the consigliere is only guessing, it’s all wild speculations; hopes that no one will notice, that they’ll all just play along
but, the wandering minstrel has lost his will to lie down
and, the troubadour is sharpening his boots for the dance
on the level, I will tell you that motor isn’t running, only because it’s all out of rocks and gum balls
if it’s time to get real, then we must suck it up and finally admit, all the Kewpie dolls are dying in the streets
the cobbler is high again; treatment didn’t take
the shoes are made of peaches, the boats all made of pearls and, the pears are getting fresh with the sailors in the saloon
apricot dandies dancing with apple cider cinder blocks in the twilight of everything that never happened thrice
rehearsing old headlines for all the latest, breaking news
the oysters are all full of shotgun pellets
all the nails are soggy, and the slugs are too tall
every day is carte blanche ice cream, caviar, and internal hemorrhaging
all the wild ponies are stuffed with loose rainbows, loose rainbows made of oil spills, and sprinkles of leprosy
the attraction is purely chemical, pure forever chemicals
today…
today was full of not dying
and a tentative lucidity
the significance of this is yet to be determined
it’s either a huge win, or it is entirely meaningless, or it’s the greatest loss of the entire war,
or it’s wholly imaginary, or it’s simply yet to be determined
all the bubbles are busy blowing away in the breezes
all the busy are stuck, spinning endlessly, on the quick wash unicycle
none of the etiquette equates to actual manners
no one’s manner equates
at least, not to anything short of mannerisms
the etiquette of mannequins
the ethics of plush toys; plush toys on holiday, plush toys that can’t be bothered with all your insistence on being treated as anything more than a plush toy
the horizon is full of paper cuts, and old bandaids
all the drums squeak when you hit them
each sip is dry, and demands yet another
if you’re walking into the furnace, be sure to take a jacket with you, so you don’t catch cold
every bottle you find is full of three wishes, someone else’s
none of the colors run; they all stand their ground, ready to fight you to the death
any of these knives are sharp enough to do the job, just as long as you don’t need to cut anything
all these silk handkerchiefs are perfectly safe; not a single one of them will have been harmed in the slightest, after they’re done strangling you
the factories are all at maximum production, cranking out empty picture frames and invitations to dinner
the lists of new lists seem to sit flush with eternity; none of them complain, and it takes a hot minute to become accustomed to the silence
every pile of shit that you see here, on the ground, they all taste like chocolate and peanut butter; trust me
this machine gun is so much more convenient than air conditioning
if we’re speaking candidly, then, you always preferred hanging your laundry out to dry
there are no more puppies but, we’re all stocked up on ska music, instant polyps, and disposable consciences
all the mountains shatter when you step on them… if we’re being totally honest
the days, all ripped up, for tourniquet rags
the hours, shattering into dust, if you so much as glance at them sideways
each of these marvelous things, all made possible by your presence
now, the hounds will go without their supper, and the king’s innards will spill out at his feet, there, on the palace floor
and all the poor children will cry, because none of the salads will ever be scrambled again
and the tumbleweeds will all starve, for want of the suffocation you so graciously bestowed upon them, in the days gone by
none of the little assassins will get Christmas cards this year, despite having been such good girls and boys
the coffee is full of conspiracy, and the fish all taste like marshmallows
the sleet sings sweet lullabies, in which there are no names
just between you and me, and this scarecrow, here…
as long as we’re shooting straight…
it’s terribly worrying to think that none of the boils will be allowed to fester and ripen in time for the harvest
because you will not be here to feed them
it is tragic, how much you will be missed
the traffic moves right along, screaming its miseries into the night
a crisp vertigo has bitch-slapped me right out of my seat, and taken my place at the table
how is it that one can be gun-shy and trigger-happy, at the same time?
these lesser mysteries fall pale and sickly, into the dim, sour heat of winter’s chamberpot
fasten a few severed limbs to your Christmas wreath, and sing that classic advertising jingle once more; it does so warm the hearts of the masses
put a few coppers into the wooden collection box to help the neighborhood children raise enough funds to burn down the old cathedral, and replace it with a house of mirrors
it’s a good cause
or, at least, it’s one that they’ll never write songs about, and hence, we’ll never have to listen to them singing
you scrunch up your brow and wonder, with a new brand of vexation, what is this peculiar dip you’ve been invited to plunge your nacho poker chips into?
it is gray with fear, it cringes and recoils when you move towards it
and, what’s more, it reeks of both vinegar and victory
a blind man sidles up next to you and tugs at your coat sleeve, saying “I’ve seen this movie. Trust me, you won’t like it, either.”
the cat has dragged home, and ceremonially draped, a hippopotamus across your threshold
it is more than a little incensed that you show no appreciation for its generosity
fickle creatures, all of us
more inscrutable nightmares, injected straight into the jugular
night wipes the sweat from its brow, takes another shot of whiskey, and motions disapprovingly toward the calendar on the wall
the constable slurs an order to the lieutenant on duty, who promptly douses the wall with gasoline, and sets the calendar ablaze
before exiting, he salutes, and cheerfully says, “No worries, sir. We’ll have a new one nailed up in time for the New Year’s festivities.”
all the stops have been ripped out from the church organ
now, it will do little more than blow bubbles, and coo sinister, atonal choruses of “Hail to the Chief,” “Ring Around the Rosie,” and “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”
“Ashes, ashes…”
we are always falling down
it has been said that there are worse things than you
still, it is truly impossible to know, and difficult to imagine, where such monsters could possibly exist
outside the building where i work, the wind whips and wails
it raises holy hell in a way that you just wouldn’t believe, not unless you heard it for yourself
it moans and cries, bawls, screeches, and shrieks, as if this was the set of an old, black and white movie
i shit you not, it got even louder, louder than it’s been in hours, just as i typed those last few lines
it’s as if the bad director of this old, 1940s horror film (or maybe it’s film noir) was really hamming it up, failing to understand the intrinsic value of restraint and moderation; not realizing that less is often more
if you’re caught out in it, in all that wind, it slices straight through you, like a gangster’s switchblade
aside from the wind, it’s so oddly quiet, here, on the inside
that’s why the wind is so obvious, there’s nothing to compete with it
there’s only the sound of the heater, and occasional fragments of conversation
but, that wind is so strong and so ridiculously loud because it’s coming right in off the train tracks, up a smooth hill with nothing on it, and then, it smashes up against the corner of this building
and that’s where i sit, right near that corner
this wind, it produces the caterwauling music of lonely banshees, raging quietly o’er the moors, weeping for lost loves, ready to punish anyone for their unconquerable sadness
i sit here and read my book of dark, lonely poetry
i know the frustration of this poet, i understand why he settled for booze and prostitutes, why he gave up on the idea of love, altogether
i understand it, but i don’t drink, and the women i chased, they didn’t charge for their madness
they just scooped it out from five-gallon buckets, the way shark fishermen deal out chum
they served their love on platters made of quicksilver, adorned with rubies, emeralds, bits of gravel, and chunks of broken glass
the whole soupy mess just floated through their veins, and dripped out from between their legs, with that cosmic wine of ether and arsenic on their breath
it slapped you in the face, like that cold, december wind, coming in off the train tracks
i hear that mournful banshee wind and i know, that i too will always be alone
not because i wasn’t good enough
but, because everyone these days is just too broken to know how to love anyone
or to love themselves
instead, it’s an unending parade of impossible tasks
herculean shit-tests, and promethean tortures for imagined wrongdoings
it’s always, “if you really loved me…
then, you’d endure this bit of bullshit
and this one
and, a thousand more just like them.
and, you’d thank me for the privilege.”
it never stops, the goddamned shit-testing
it just never stops coming
it’s just like that goddamn wind outside
always wailing
only, more full of tragedy
more imbued with a primal rage
and, full of an over-the-top loneliness
the type of effluvial, melodramatic sadness that pumps straight out of old black and white movies, dripping bombastic sentimentality all over the celluloid
i would step outside, shake my fists at the sky, and yell, “stella!”
but, nobody’d hear it
and, they wouldn’t get the joke, even if they did
people these days, they don’t know shit about streetcars, or any kind of desire that isn’t a fleeting whim
their desires are all easily forgotten beneath the next, pointless distraction
they wouldn’t know a maltese falcon, if it fell on their heads
they can’t sit still for classic films they can’t sit still in a dark theater they can’t take the wailing cold of the cutting wind
and, they certainly can’t stand to be alone
the wind whips, stinging like a shapeless jellyfish, zapping you with a high voltage charge, like a downed power line
slow boiling, thrusting tired reasons into the weary lap, insisting that some small attention be paid
but, I know better
I know better than to recite the ancient prayers of martyrdom
it’s better not to read from the scroll of curses, raising the dead from tattered ground
it’s best to let them sleep, and slide into permanent anonymity
one does better not to
not to chant the titles of lesser demons, not to coax ghosts from crypts, not to roust the ravenous empty
it is far more desirable that the accursed names of behemoth remain unspoken
it’s incredibly easy to exceed capacity, strangled by your excess, and your soft spot for monsters
let the red soaked ground dry, give wounds time to heal, allow the guillotine blade a moment to cool down
let the dust of buzz-sawed bones settle, and fall out of the choking air
let the empty-headed hydra of war collapse
exhausted from fighting its thousands of invisible enemies
there has been enough carnage for one day
there has been
enough
grant the dying wish of silence
a blessed respite, blissfully unaware of your woeful, grinding appellations, that unendingly unhappy visage, stained with its frown and the frost of unyielding winter
this petite quiet, this dainty truce,
it is so delightfully superior, to the constant bombardment, the complaints of directionless bullets
angry shrapnel, with nothing better to do than to bark at the meaningless winds of a barren landscape, where no one ever argued about arguments
the thirst of your nameless hounds is never sated
no amount of anything, anything carelessly mislabeled “justice” would ever tip your scales, one way, or the other
your loaded dice fall from the table on each and every stupid turn
no bodycount is ever high enough, there is no number of heads in a basket that will ever quell your determined dissatisfaction
ceaseless disapproval
incapable of receiving yes, trampling all answers into the dirt
happy only to take an eternal no
and, even then, only as an affirmation of the absence of the affirmative
the reasonless ill will of your callous armies, all those unemployed mercenaries, itching for new enmities
your warfare is unabated, insufferable, unattractive
it is a Christmas fucking miracle, to receive nothing, nothing at all
Kevin Trent Boswell 