Bumps

there’s nothing good left
on the internet.
most is far from right,
or at best- circles with no geometry.

six weeks of whiskers can’t cure
my boredom, my high,
a dull razor with intent,
kingly strides of novel irritation
all in the name of fun
never anointed.

perhaps a lapse, a break
from reading
of bumps;
some soft, some blue
with burrs embedded
that prick my blood, but
not my hand.

let them lie,
already categorized online
in files,
in vials,
insanity solutions
of knives
of crimes
to release release-less
but i’ll just keep it.
and the bumps.
i’m not me until they leave.

Flow White

the ground is lightly whitely covered,
enough to freeze the green, but not mask the color
as flakes dance on mid-air gusts of wind, suspended,
flowing, floating, failing their falling,
moving as one as each is one their own,
creating the scene, overlapping green,
white on white.