a good attempt

Little drops of condemnation
fall from the
lightning-storm cloud,

forming pools of
fingerprint sweat.

What am I doing?
Lying

baking in the
gaze of a
late summertime
storm.

Biased ambassadors
leave a crinkled note
on the doorstep,

asking us to
step it up,
to keep it down,
and to water
the plants nextdoor.

I have nothing
to contribute
except
a scrambled
figment

which lies above

Consider

For a moment,
forget your
first born son.
Then makeshift
a sack to load
up his shit,
so that he can
admire the
covers of
the books
he brought with.

No candles lit.
I lip-low real
soft because
if I were to
disturb the
cowlicked
stalks of the
black corn sea,
they would
rally the lightning
bugs to strike me.

I have many more failures
before I can come home.