Philip Byron Oakes


Milquetoast hooligans surfing ripples knowing
waves are made of much the same. Inured to all
but the most potent nuance parading its ethic of
gesture. Filling in for ease of mind. Pockets of
resistance to the cumulative effect of bearing up
under the radar. To keep hidden out for anyone
to see. In the mineral rich broth of certain
outcomes. Angling towards shore enough to stem
a tide. Wean inertia of its thrust. To equip stray
thoughts for longevity, amidst the many marching
in formation. Shielding chance as chances are.
Acquiescing to voices. To be on time’s side in the
space race for room to say. Leaving a chasm at the
heart of a geology lesson. As the dominoes fall into
place put to use in mysterious ways, the calendar
turns a page on understanding why it takes so little
to cause so much dilution. In an opinion poll of
fingers and toes. An economy of motion running
along the slipping on the slope towards thoughts
too unwieldy to think they are your own.


Vagrant yearnings falling upon swords of sleep.
The crux cracking openings in wounds, apprentice
scars, a bobo’s bluster wielded under umbrellas
of sanctimony, as proof puddling crimson treacle
where it falls. Running a rut to ground for
safekeeping the peace a product of inertia.
Questions altering the very nature of answers quiz
kidding all along. Forget we lest the haunt is on a
par with shivers at the sight of god. Jus cuz when
in doubt the rout is on, hopping the skipped over
and over as if they never existed in the clammy
flesh. But as a foothold. A pose struck dead on the
spot. In a calculus of trajectory to the soft landing
in summation, tying a bow on the finally knowing
the respite from the death of the difference. The
retributive from the gift disbursed in a blend of
finales auditioning until the end of time. Dumbing
the ombudsman down a lonesome road. When
the topsy goes full turvy by birthright.