Poem One About Last Night

By Kingston Rivera

Kingston Rivera is a California resident spending his time in lockdown tending to his goats, playing card games, and fixing fences. He writes about memory, generation loss, dreams, and digital lives

Tonight there’s a cold spirit calling from the canopy

You could call it a graveyard wind,

The way the rattling tousle will test my patience past tonight

Tired doors moan tomorrow, fer god sake

Let’s hope for better weather after sleep,

While Eastern hours wain, I slip the day wide awake

At odds again with the demon of incursion,

As he kisses my cursed lips, they take my name from the registrar

He points a slippy finger in my direction,

Then begins to pen his confession

More power to you, dark deathwish

Don’t you get the bony loneliness?

Sinking into the hot tub and closing your eyes,

That’s the curse of recursion

I say, write your lost book already!

All day long returning to the same words,

Some people just need a new way to put it,

Not their father’s depressive output

I sense the classics aren’t enough

You can write all day long and unless you make new words,

You’re just preparing an etching

That is just to say, after all,

Well I ate no plums, and I ain’t no leyline pilgrim

But in my respectful opinion,

make your changes and send them to the fucking editor!

Poem Two About Today

About Last decade,

How should I phrase this?

Pain comes easy when it’s dosed cheaply

Administered as standard procedure

Your learning curve is a killer warning

Make a call in life and grip the system

The fraught gospel is that any truth you project may fail,

Fatally, maybe

 

That’s how we check our souls and balance ourselves

A ton of close friends are murdered every day,

Meanwhile lucid sleepyheads are en masse relinquishing their dreams

How are you any different?