bait, bait, more bait

of tailored for unique ones,

squishy shrimps for those

more adamant on spongy morsel

before venturing further

into. that abyss beginning to sound

like a fairy tale come to life

where quick fixes become permanent

chunks of house building materials

that withstand trials and stress.

does not bend, does not break, tweak

a little to adapt with flexible arms

stretched out wide and a grouper chews

down on wriggly red worms screaming

for attention. they are like neon lights

in a vast ocean of nothing, then the house

calls, the tap dance, the entertainers

come along to wipe stinky sweat from a hard

day’s work. ain’t that better?

of course it is, the nervous chatter begin

with anxious ones predicting a catch. then

the fisher casts a net of a different kind, where

nudges are felt, cold chill is infused with

a calm detonation, goes off with red alarm

bells let off the hook and a stupor fades into

a home shaky. it’s collapsing, with maintenance

requested going out by the dozen, with

iron and nails hammering into each nook,

crevice that was not there a moment before,

because the master of the house is paying

the bills. it’s there. find it, find the boogeyman.

so they did as they were told, though nothing

was amiss, the net tightened till it became

a nervous chuckle when the mayor inquired

what’s going on? still he took the check, winked

at slits and sink holes not quite there. took an invoice,

billed for each line item made real through

belief. the winds howled, the sky darkened, the

master rested on his couch, calm as the eye

of a cyclone, able to at peace because he has

done all he could when the spine no longer

feels the cold wraith moving straight into bull’s eye.

the heart weeps, collapses when the

warmth spread from decades of building

vanishes with a loathsome hanging corpse

grinning in mid-air. takes up all the wine, honey

and ember, apparates back into a fisher’s pouch for

safe keeping.

mountains of gold erected upon layers of

dreams with dazzling delights echoing

in a forest desolate, with nymphs and goatherders

relishing with green eyed monsters breaking

out of shells. what thin shells, with clothing

sliding off, with appearances becoming

more feral to chase the nectar humming alive

like a thousand bees heading home. the cheeky

demeanor of comfortable clouds floating

without work, lavished with the sun’s blessing

and heated birds making love. then feral turns

to grins when they too join the joyous parade

where the harsh glare of light insults not

history already erased for groaning days, years

no longer able to bite.

reel in slowly, the dense air parts, the mist

becomes galloping reindeers flying out

of sinkholes and slits not made up – the moaner

wails that horror has come, the bemused onlookers

see nothing but heralds making way to

the pulpit, to proclaim glad tidings of prosperity

when cursed nights remain defeated foes. red alarms

sound back when all that electricity is drained away,

trapped. comes back like a coiled spring

pouncing back to life, heaves, wrestles, struggles

to warn circuits making sense of troubled seas

beneath smooth skin. a happy face breaks up

with pimples, like a teenager splattered with dots,

tries to cover those ghastly tell tale signs

with a shrug. but shrugs only go so far before

the holes swell up, the fisher reels the line in.

then. it becomes clear what under the hood

means when the catch is fresh, the catch is trapped,

they never had a chance from a fallen angel

who now too feels calm, collected, joyous even

when misery loves company and memories of

golden days remain out of touch for e v e r . . . . . .