Rods and Cones rearranging around themselves
perilously well,
trying to see in this half light
I keep wondering about white light and bright black
I have trained how to deal with them
but they’re so sparse in reality
I never trusted him until the ones who made bad calls
started starring in cameo rolls in my dreams
as burnt out, cussing rock stars
I know, I know it was just a slip in the tongue
But Freud says you’re in love
So now who am I to believe?
All this beauty that I’ve grown accustomed to
That I curse at and look through
quietly retreats into itself
Because The Crows keep coming, bringing my dross back around
and I’m cowering at the sound of the words
they’re chanting to me
They keep saying,
“Good ideas are just bad ideas that work”

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