My subconscious is a group project with many subcommittees.
Hopefully there are people much smarter than me
Making some of these decisions.
As it stands,
I have my hand in an oil can
While building a house from matches.
At night I fear silence so I whisper my anthems to God,
I spend the day trying to be a kite-
And then burning every kite in a 10 mile radius because I’m mad I failed.
The wind in the conifers beckons,
Yet the subcommittees have all voted no,
And I cry in my yard
and don’t understand why I do
The day is clean shaven,
When the city eaters and their svelte gray machines
Enter in through the back M- across a complicit river.
When the streets failed under the filmy force,
The people had nowhere to walk.
They stayed in their apartments and watched the world burn –
Because the landlord didn’t secure the railing
Once the grocery stores were chewed up and spit out
By an Eater called Fin
I fled to sleep.
Desiccated red like a rose picked apart
By the sort of angry young man who would tear the wings off a butterfly
Red speaks to me in a cracked voice.
She was a sultry with a temper.
Now her skin is a desert.
She tells me to avoid the heat of summer and grasp spring-
Before the boys become men by the river
I lay in bed at night thinking about that rose
And her love for me.