Neighbors have a bug infestation
My personal manifestation
From streets to the bus station
In an overcast nation
Call it tradition.
We’ve run out of munitions.
No ball players,
but the pitcher’s pitching
and we’re Nothing
but strikeouts
From Maggot to Fly
The cigarette bud is crushed
Into the creases
Of rotten Would.
I can see my face
Resembled in the ash
And know we are
One and the same.
Though I more closely
Imitate the insect.
Rummaging through cadavers,
Squirming boils burst
at their own
volition
Dug deep into the earth
To taste the red hot
Of my species
Under so much weight,
I begin the great ascent
Knowing it’s likely
I’ll never see
The green surface.
It’d be easier to accept death,
But what’s the point
Of a bug like that.
Writhing in Tepid Streams
Hell bound Hounds
We’ve found
we’ve drowned
Could the sea
Wash more away
Than sin?
More than body and soul?
So unassuming,
So indifferent.
Maybe the secret to the pursuit,
Is in the changing tide
Unsure of what’s to be.
Sacrificed for this brittle end,
But with laces tied
And eyes covered
I walk.
How is good?
Como es Bueno?
How is beautiful?
It is unique
It is countless endings
Never ending
Until it ends
I know what I’m writing
Is shit.
It is unworthy of a quick
Read through
And the point is lost
Even on me.
Maybe if my mind
Consisted of blue jays
Swift flight to infinite window pane
Hurtling towards death
I can pick up my broken beaked demons
Nurture and love it
Better than
I do myself.
My Quiet Friend
*Trigger* This poem deals with the subject of suicide.
I saw her years ago
She smiled in a quiet room
She was soft
Her body was warm
As white as the sheets on the walls
a room without a window
for sometime
She’s patched
Like she’s spent a lifetime
Pulling her hair out
She says she’s done more than
taste death,
that it emanates from
her very being.
Death has become a part
of who she is
The circles around her eyes
Like she’s spent too much time
In the dark
The bright bands on her slit wrists
Like the neon signs in Vegas streets.
