To become a metaphor

Half way up Everest you find a bag of weed.
You stash in it in your sleeve so no one else sees it
and so you feel it crinkle in your symmetry.

Three-fifths up the exit polls arrive with the victorious:
“We saw it on the horizon—the sloths won.”
Lights out, you spark a J from a hand-wash-only tag.

Two-thirds up it’s obvious, and your crew insist
share or leave. It’s Jonestown or no foul play

Seven-tenths up you’re all coughing, or was it
four-sevenths, you’re waving down the upcoming

The wholly-sober survivors return home to learn
there was no signal—the sloths never left office.
Leadership stick the climbers up their sleeves, brag

“I got this for being a human being.”
Someone pries your coat free because
someone they love is freezing. They are a moment

weightless, dreamy. “Why’d nigh thinka that
–damn tag been buggin since we set out.”

~

Special thanks to Amanda Besserer for prompting my partner to prompt me about Everest.

SCREAM CAPS / HABITation

 

Teething wisdom, the citizenry can’t stop /

won’t stop chattering and boxing their ears.

There are no scandals—the sine wave

flat.

 

                                  I imagine the Borg

edge on hard-core in their alcoves, relent

solely to materialize violence. Today

I try to write a poem and pleasure

fissures a blank.

 

                                                           Fed

feelings. Fed struggle. Fed thought. Fed

potential. On dark nights Janet Jackson

meditates. She envisions a colourless

spaceship. She and her brother

scream.