Poems exploring whether or not we create our world, through reflections past and current .
It's not a first impression if you make it all the time.
Call it what you want;
we're all the name-brand
version of wanting to die.
When there is a home for it,
we're not family or friends
or family friends, but a
mismatched hand of aces
in the full house of broken diamonds
whose meanings are lost in the flush.
The argued bits of canonical bliss.
The hype of the deal that became
a 52 Pickup consisting of only jokers.
I see you. I see you. I see you.
All in the same suit, a
fashionably sterile hospital blue.
Don't deal me in; I'm not here to win.
I'm not ready to talk; just watch.
Our failures come in spades
multiplied by a system
of minimal success; a chance
at odds with the odds.
No one is paid enough or makes enough
to see the game through. And
as the losses mount (on top
of everything you've already lost)
your haven is no longer safe.
How many times must we fold?