Untitled #x

96. It was not on this block.
But another facing the park
That a square’s angles were rounded
Well curved in a manner most unsettling
All the angles chopped into a jagged arc
A cubist gargoyle’s face
Spun around to hear
The dark whispers rustling the leaves
Shrouded doorstep voices lurk in the ebon mist
Promising freedom from Euclidean impediments
We would no longer be their playthings.
Fear’s fog cat bats us around
Red juices sloshing
Every cell on adrenalin alert
The city’s shoulders try to shrug us off
We roll with it
Shiv its mirror halls
Shambling our way back to its nethers
The benches await us
Spread with the big-box store cardboard
We built ourselves from the overstock
Having consumed the brothers of our better nature
We lie down by our digital stream
Put in more bids for suburban torpor
A bluish black blankness blankets the street
Intermittent data fireworks screen saving until morning.