twitter renga #0119

[try to write renga, one tanka at a time, on my @_raven_mack_ twit, but didn't post the last October one bc it's book length, and took rest of year off; but returned to nonsense gibberish glory end of January]

awake in a place 
occupied with bright nothing, 
wall built around heart 

I attempt to erect sand 
castle of hope each morning 

these hours spent working 
with no probable fruit feel 
like wasted moments 

too many dates dried until 
no sweetness is left to taste 

riding the bus home, 
not tired because work’s mostly 
unreal, just acting 

pretending to have purpose 
highly exhausting for heart 

darkness settles in, 
winter in America - 
just a single man 

trying to fill my nights with 
poetry, not politics 

writing with thumbprints 
upon cracked screen taped in place, 
secondhand smartphone 

my intelligence grows more 
dim with each scroll I read through 

scatter word prayers 
along my daily path - both 
real and digital 

“nothing is real” refrains heard 
beneath buzz - “nothing is real” 

the path sometimes lost 
behind steps to navigate 
trifling obstacles 

“life is work” philosophy 
manufactured by empire 

any government 
can be shut down when people 
decide it’s enough 

but humans remain at best 
domesticated as fuck 

a feral spirit’s 
innate fire slowly smothered 
by good behavior 

what’s legal and what’s right have 
very little in common 

tattooing phrases 
up and down legs - mantras for 
an open casket 

born from dirt, became a god, 
bound to snuggle back in dirt 

slept in late without 
commitment - rare occasion 
of fully rested 

life’s vagaries return with 
extreme prejudiced quickness 

winter’s bitter blue 
sky leaking through the window, 
in both sight and feel 

warm-hearted man in cold world, 
with “fuck it” philosophy 

sat on a park bench 
contemplating the future, 
while my children lurk 

even outside, space is cramped - 
metaphysical fences 

sweet potato tots 
and hamburgers for dinner, 
plans for leftovers 

broke but blessed with abundance - 
high late capitalism 

watching Mexican 
futbol lying on Swedish 
couch - a southern boy 

southern gothic futurist, 
embracing whatever comes 

insert "woke up quick, 
at about noon" sample since 
that shit was too true 

youngest was sick on the couch, 
watching youtube like zombie 

quickly whipped up the 
lemon ginger sage quart jar, 
plus gross plantain tea 

convincing a child to take 
unsweetened good for them drinks 

conditioned to sip 
corn syrup elixirs, by 
our poison culture 

glyphosate tastebuds resist 
healing tonics stubbornly 

stopped by the old school 
grocery store - chicken feet 
for homemade bone broth 

they was out; up front, simple 
folks connecting through small talks 

making sleepytime 
tea every evening, half 
hour before bedtime 

"good thoughts to you" tradition 
at the door, cutting lights off 

suffering Monday 
existential crisis, like 
always - what's the point? 

creative nature jailed by 
responsible life's mandates 

"I am a hidden 
treasure; I am unknown yet 
desire to be known" 

walking beneath solar shine, 
contemplating vagaries 

our essence is not 
chaos, but manmade order 
feels awkward and wrong 

most of my hours are haram, 
life lacking true sanctity 

expected to speed 
up and remain productive, 
behave like machine 

denying organic heart 
which desires to freely live 

each night, exhausted, 
yet accomplished so little... 
a wasted spirit 

poking words into touch screen 
hoping to unlock my self 

when will there be time 
to recharge from relentless 
time, to sleep fool night 

each morning arrives before 
I’m ready to attack it 

fuck it... life goes on, 
whether you’re ready or not, 
so ride that shit out 

don’t get to scratch the surface 
but once, and not for that long 

gotten old and soft; 
too far removed from doing 
acid on Tuesdays 

pushing rocks like Sisyphus, 
marked with “work hard and retire” 

retire when I die, 
likely before retirement 
age, to be honest 

can’t escape trash genetics, 
Fargo strut, no safety net 

yelling “whoo!” at a 
froze world full of shinefaces 
with gross number hearts 

“and this bird you cannot change” - 
sad refrain of the dirtgod 

the veil's currently 
stretched thin; the fog machines are 
in need of repair 

listen closely... you can hear 
the gears grinding, near breakage 

"it's the whole combine, 
the nation-wide combine that's 
the really big force" 

Chief Bromden prophecied all this - 
he heard the mechanisms 

moments getting missed 
because life keeps happening; 
lost in labyrinth 

these cold dark nights of the soul, 
during winter’s solitude 

ain’t been clicking my 
tasbih like I should, keeping 
hands tucked in pockets 

still ain’t got no winter coat - 
stubborn viking genetics 

Bezels of Wisdom 
heavily dog-eared beside 
my free queen-sized bed 

man of limited means, but 
unlimited potential