KYLE SLEDGE

Every thing possible to be believed is an image of truth.

Haiku Achoo

Morning Haiku

The sun has risen
Illuminating us all
My spirit awakes

Noon Haiku

First coffee at noon
I sit riverside and soon
I sweat my balls off

Dream Haiku

The last time I cried
I stood alone in a dream
You ran far away

Overslept Haiku

Brain in a deep haze
Wakeful, yet stuck in slumber
I stay fast in bed

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Death in the Digital Age

Driven to distraction, caught in shouting streets
I wander southbound as my soles slide along this rain-soft cement
While star-crossed lovers paint portraits of indecipherable dissonance.
Promenading past the vacant faces, I find myself
Peeling away the layers that have been building for years,
pulling existence to pieces.

Street lights bounce between shop windows
As I reflect on moments of conduits and chamomile.
In live wire electrics and softly unceasing scents
I find nights to be no different than days.
Each are filled with my every regret.
Each are filled with my every belief.
Each are filled with my every lament.
Each are filled with my every relief.

Go ahead–try to sum up life with data-driven discourse.
(You can’t.)
Then tag everyone and tell them the news.
(You should.)
Bloggers, vloggers, pundits, partisans, PR pap peddlers
(You whores.)
Each and every one of us is going to die.
(You are.)
We all go alone from this world to another.
(You will.)

It’s all the same.
It’s a shell game.

Drosophilidae Inquisitio

Still steeped in sleep, I slowly pull back the shower curtain.
There’re no suds for cleansing, so I’ll stick with sweat instead.
Heat harnesses everything in the room,

masking the mirror with fog.

A red delicious rests on the soap rack from previous rushed efforts.
The skin’s been broken with bites covering its circumference.
A dark glaze forms over the worn flesh,

fading the light underneath.

Fruit flies float in a sporadic pattern, not knowing which way to go.
I try to give them guidance toward the goal at hand: sustenance.
Instead, their tiny little wings flitter away,

searching for succor elsewhere.

A sun to them I was
For only a moment
They lived as satellites.

Tributary

Underneath the overpass
Where nature intersects with industry
The man-made stream’s water strides
Steadily forward without ceasing once
To ponder where it’s going
While cars above clop along the concrete
Their drivers’ minds fret idly for futures
So far in the distance they don’t exist

We’re all at some place within
The beginning and the end of it all
And no one knows for certain
How the great mystery will be resolved
Whether fire rains from the sky
Tsunamis swallow the entire species
Or a Savior swaddles our souls in death
Humanity was a gift from the start

I sit atop a limestone
As lilac blooms tinged with gasoline fumes
Tickle both of my nostrils
A mockingbird flies to its secret nest
Hidden somewhere in the trees
Sunlight rests in between the cool shadows
The illumination fades around me
Vultures spiral in circles, riding winds

Sunday Funday

Saturday’s Suggested Listening

Dream Factory Disguiser

Pink-locked pixie goddess
Sprinkling magic dust on stars
Hands covered in ink and scars
No, she’s not a novice

An expert in old hurt
Hidden behind those blue eyes
Her past lives and bright hair dyes
Tell a story of birth

A crowning achievement
Sent shockwaves through skull and spine
Heavenly bodies aligned
She struck gold with talent

Agents rushed her westward
The silver screen awaited
Her debut celebrated
Schlocky sci-fi pictures

Cinema to boob tube
The work remained consistent
Behind-the-scenes assistance
She bled, blossomed, and bloomed

Foundations, primers, stains
Powders, concealers, and creams,
Her kit even stashed some weed
Easing each long day’s pains

A cancer plagued the bones
Marrow mired in myeloma
Chemo trips to Pomona
She killed foul chromosomes

Rail thin in remission
Ready to take on the world
Her oyster bestowed a pearl
Signaling transition

Alive amongst the glitz
Aware of the fantasy
Committing to make-believe
She masks the prosthetics

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