Why Do I Like Being Alone?

Why do I like being alone?

Cast iron smells hellacious.
Voices are diggers,
And my skin is soft.
Victims hiss when
Their yoke is sucked
From their mouths like a breath.
Spare me the torture
Of day sailers
And night sailors.

I am coming to a stop within me.
No cracker
Ever tasted so neat.

Less of You

The advertisement promised diligent bread.
The sort of thing that will eat for you

While you bask prideful in a fashionable,
Contemporary hunger.

The world loves you as it loves itself.

That’s why it wants less of you, Dear.
Of course.

Don’t doubt.
Pout.
There is a new job coming,
To be done by someone else.

Hell Is

It rains on desert,
Granola,
Landsscape.

The jagged rocks crusted
With love letters to Dante.

He had the levels of hell all wrong.

There is so much dancing,
But the music is atonal,
And pestilence bores holes through
The dancers’ feet.

Hell is a life if obligator dancing.

Choices

Piquant wood shavings

build houses from one another.

Natural selection,

the choices of the man in the barn with his saw.

The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.

If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.

Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.

When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.

Prose Poem

The well-off at the ossified marina count the crusty salt crystals. Orange corn poking from the windows of my old home dare me to grind my teeth on it. At the mouth of the bay of wine, bad memories teeter. The division between food and teeth is stark. The division of drink and thought soft. She strays from the wine to my old house and its belligerent farm.

Rough draft

The Wrens

Banished to the well, the little boat that steered itself.

No strength welcome here in the miserly home of wrens.

Shoe laces control a careful electricity.

Wrens like knives, ask toddlers to carry them.

Glad Gloria had the boat. Now she has her name changed. She will never be 3.

The wrens eat well, don’t share with one another.

Natural Selections

Piquant wood shavings build houses from one another. Natural selection, the choices of the man in the barn with his saw. The light chooses not to touch those with old tongues any longer.

If I went to the light, I would find a locket of gold.

Choices are envious of boxes. To make a choice is to sew yourself to something that runs faster than you can.

When choices are all spooled out and the thread is cut, what remains is a saw and a veil of night.

Roiling – inspired by word generator

The well off at the ossified marina count the crusty salt crystals. Orange corn poking from the windows of my old home dare me to grind my teeth on it. At the mouth of the bay of wine, bad memories teeter. The division between food and teeth is stark. The division of drink and thought soft. She strays from the wine to my old house and its belligerent farm.