I thought of
That old adage,
“The winds of change.”

Hearing it
Is supposed to conjure
Sweeping visions,
Powerful imagery
An altered state
Of being.

A leaf teeters weightlessly
To the sidewalk
Because fall
Is upon us
And this
Is in flux.

I flush libations
In bile form
Down the toilet
To comingle
With turds
Or rotten
Goldfish cadavers
Mixed with enzymes,
Will change
And become
Something useful
Like, fertilizer.


Or perhaps the process
Of churning that vile pond
Of all things flushed
Will only serve
As the swirling
Walnut colored backdrop
For “America’s Worst Jobs”
As some poor fuck
Stirs the heap
With a varnished rod
In a canvas Centas uniform,
Navy blue,
His name embroidered
On the breast.

At home,
Three more
Just like
The one
He wears
For the show
As his 15 minutes
Burn away
Like time lapsed
Decay in a
South American rainforest,
The shit builds
In mounds.

His name is,
Or Jorgè
Or Simon.

His wife’s name
Is Tammy
Or Patricia
Or Evelyn
And she hates him
For coming home
Stinking worse
Than her ashtray
Of a mouth.

He goes to work
At 6 am
To stir turds
And puke
And used condoms
And baby wipes
And fish heads
And cocaine
And all of the things
People flush down toilets.

For him,
Will changes.

It never will.

The same
For him
And his trusty rod
And his lady
And her lucky strike arteries.

The winds of change
Happen only beneath him.

The winds arrive clean,
From a nearby ocean shore and
Create ripples of excrement
Like a sinister chemistry experiment
For those who lost a bet
With life.

For me,
The winds of change
Are far more subtle
And merely
Hit me in the face
On morning trains
As hurried, anxious laden
Hold mobile devices in front of them
Like a map for buried treasure
As they
Enter an idle train
From a rundown platform
Or disembark
From a tattered, carpet floor
That has not been cleaned
Since 1975.

The wind
By their abrupt retreat
Will linger,
Seducing me
To inhale it
Without reservation
Leaving me to weigh
This newfound olfaction,
Of their odorant
Dietary regimen
On a screeching train
Destined for the bowels
Of a cold hearted San Francisco.

Processing their musky aroma,
Like a bat echo locates bugs
Under a midnight moon,
I think of change
And how I must (change)
So that I don’t end up
Growing moss
Like a dead log,
Lodged between two rocks,
Doused by clean water currents
That either enter the ocean
And become salt water
Where blue whales
Will migrate
Or take a wrong turn
And spill into the Mississippi
To become a clump of toxic mud
For mutant catfish
To lie upon
And die.

The winds of change
Hover above me now
Accompanied by fog
So thick
It blocks the sun.

It is dense enough to luxuriate on,
And you can,
But only if you’re strong enough
To let go,
Float up there
To be carried

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