He doesn’t see the mountain
Under his feet as he travels
Only thinks that the
World has pulled away
From him
Tag: writing
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.
Hungry Scavengers
Calligraphy of rain,
Gentle messages stolen from a cloud,
A mother sacrificing her life
For future generations of mothers.
Spilling overtures of relief go door to door
To every blade of wheat.
Only the scavengers will go hungry this year
The Last Painting
Labored seeing –
The artist as his canvas drifts away.
The IV hums a little.
They only let him squeeze
The morphine button every five minutes.
4 out of every 5 minutes
Is a dog gnawing on his body.
Please…
He begs…
One more painting and I will go
Without complaint.
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.
Light and Heat
What does the light ray feel
Falling to her death on
My skin?
When the end is near
She does not perceive darkness
Where she is, the dark is not.
When she is gone
She is cancerous trash
The heat is her child
And will move on
To other mothers
Maybe she feels what I do
When I close my eyes
Wilted.
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.
Beer
Beaches of lime and slow.
We are home to the most unpopular beer.
I have a lot to drink here
but eat slowly.
Threatening texture
Physical.
Justice
Justice is a poor best friend,
Sticking knives in me
Where I can see them.
I reach for the cookie
He slaps me gently
I smell the desiccated marsh
He holds my hand on rollercoasters.
It wouldn’t be fair
For me to die when I
Have been so innocuous
But the tide looked
Innocuous and the
Fish is dead.
I am not a reed in the marsh.
When he takes me home
He always takes the
Long route
Adam
Help the baby in cashmere
This is a heinous place
To be born.
I have been in the spider’s
Web a long time,
Most of me liquified.
Most.
She keeps a little of
Me alive
For amusement
There are bitter stones
Everywhere
With no water to
Wear them away
Find a garden somewhere
Lay him down beside the bees
Name him Adam.
Miniature Moon 