Bohemian

Coffee, at the computer, slightly 

high, messy desk, prepared for

the end.

"Jar of Flies", continuity of mood,

smoke rising, words emerge, why

is not a good question.

Ready to slip-slide through the

apocalypse if it happens soon,

bored with the election, Broncos

tomorrow, as if it's the same as 

it ever was.

Bleached out by life, dark clothes

to point out what form is left 

standing, all that effort not for

nothing, a child will still smile at me.

Conspiracy is interesting, so many 

people, might as well be some, all

talking at once, screaming on the

internet, keeps 'em busy.

If these words can arise, how can

the universe not be teeming with life?

It wasn't the world that was flat,

it was your head...

....same as it ever was.