The forest is my throne

Yet another metal reference lost on you heathens.

We'll be seeing this guy again.

More apocalyptic sustenance, you bet.

Blood of the earth.

Walking here, I remembered there, where that other she held a cane, he held her hand, her eyes coming to a stop along with her body & his, convex glazes darting as if seated on a drunken gyroscope. He pointed a craggy digit up as if to the top of a distant mountain; at what, I wondered. The bland, skyward corner of the Justice center was all that was there. But she smiled even though it was a strain to do so & they walked on, so slow that it seemed the Wheelie Bus stop was passing them by. Salve for crises, or aftermath of crises long solved, or witnessing a telepathy that develops in rare couples. I didn't ask which.

Tangled webs.

Distant early warning.

Bleached.

Doomed.

During city darkthroning the other day, the Peonage, along with a gaggle of more professionally-dressed yokels who dared invade the corona of our personal space, strolled past Clevelandia's Own® & ever-diminishing #OccupyThis where we were told, in a voice earnest yet with just a tangy hint of snarky disdain faux-cleverly cloaked in a smile you ain't fooling me campus film student I've seen your mug before, that "we're occupying for you."

If only I had worn my Blaze In the Northern Sky tee over my shorts & sneakers in lieu of a shirt with buttons.

Employed in a concrete burg that is the center of nothing (though we are the 63rd busiest US port go Clevelandia it's your birthday), & where shlubs like us simply wish to get away from the drone for a few dozen minutes, we're merely cogs in the machine preferring to take pictures of leaves instead of sitting on the 2 a.m. floor of a concrete burg that is the center of nothing. 

Would I be more willing to get down n' anarchy if this was Oaktown where, amidst more than eight bodies, such a glassy beatdown & taking rubber bullets to 99% flesh that's 1% to vast swaths of overseas Others supposedly means a damn thing in a world that can't be saved?

Or would I be satisfied to continue silently bitching about having to work an extra hour on the desk because yet another coworker called off yet the one that always does didn't for once but is doing her typical Speakerphone shtick of disappearing to bullshit with other fuckers & fuck is the usual band of weirdos less weird/more annoying in this sufficiently climate controlled dump that means nothing like the center in which it sits, but paycheck-to-paycheck gives me street cred, or something, so how about we agree to not call each other out for not doing much of anything but subverting the system from within of course that will play in Peoria trying to get by in this toxic event called existence until the grave calls us home to feed the worms?

Metaphor.

Anti-metaphor.

Anti-anti-metaphor.

Escape.

Capture.

With each flick of the breeze, I ran beneath the trees like a kid to the strains of the sometimes-better-half's half-laugh, trying to snare with my lens a falling leaf, genius that I am, forgetting about the burst function, so all you get is a blur.

Vertigo.

Over the ridge.

Fools.

The hard place.

Still being followed.

Up a creek.

Secret stash.

Nesting.

The thing from another world.

Mellow yellow.

In the shadow of the horns.

Poor composition keeps the branch from droopy sadness.

Gotcha.

Hey, I know you.

I think I'm blind, & I didn't even have to masturbate or eat sixty-four slices of American cheese.

Duck, duck, duck, no geese.