day ONE HUNDRED and TWENTY SEVEN

keystone or frieze -

Aorta, fist of flesh,
furious instrument of this

most enigmatic life,
little Hamlet, do you swear

to tell the truth? Your

Honor, Monday, Cosmic

Mother, Yahweh-God, let
their pain be held in

abeyance as I catch
my beating breath.

Thin ice, frozen lake
of empathy and internet,

Psyche drips. Cupid burns.
The Pieta just stood up

and walked out of the room.
St. Timothy is leading the

zombie apocalypse
petrified and unaware

how to make a truck
into a fertilizer bomb.

Monday, Monday,
the people are lost.

Monday, all the clocks
are wrong and the

gravity of furniture
holds me like a lover

on the floor. Source code,
instantaneous dissemination

of information, world wide
web, actual versus factual,

help me on Earth as it
is in the imaginarium

of tools. I see my
face in the faces

of every evil deed
done by every evil man.

Are we keystone or frieze?
Acceptance and inclusion

like two arms open and outstretched,
Darkness, Monday, Lord, God,

show me who saves the terrible places. I'll only die tonight

for the right words, the right
words and the terrible places.

--Paul Konieki