Where are we going he asked the small crowd of about twelve as they stepped slowly dodging clumps of mud in the deeply soaked dirt behind the wooden carriage. It bounced about, throwing itself with every step of the hoove, as the four muscular four legged beasts whipped their tails and trodder ahead, pulling the heavy mass of the stuffed wooden object behind them.
You’ll know soon enough
With enough time
Do not worry,
Enjoy the ride
Dandelions all about if you look closely
Too much mud in my boot
There goes the sun with every step
This this this
The troop marched through the greenery, and it browned upturned in its wet state, wetttened by the storms, the grass emulsified
The waters cold grey groan
Winter spent clutching sand slipping through my knuckles
I gasp Firmament
In the shoots of green and yellow tufts dispersed by feathers discarded by birds
Waxed paper discarded by men
White Plastic coffee creamer cups discarded by men
Yellowing earl grey tea bags
discarded by men
Burnt crisped flattened cigarette butts
But the waters wash. Whiter water billowing. Violent diaspora* of white and blues and sweet smelling sand circulating in the circular motion of falling wash.
There is something deeply peaceful about cleaning. The action of putting order to those in which have none if they’re to lie where they lay
Eat the dinner and clean it up
Turn on the light and turn it off
Recycle the plastic, buy more
Sleep awake again
When will we feel finite
When will I come to be the beast to feast upon the nest
The one to harrow fear to those at rest
The baby bird falls from the tree
It’s spreads its wings to bounce from red branches of the canopy
My brain is festered with worms
Tombstone in the white wash
I’ve lost my leash
I’ll never catch another at haggradies
I was beaten on the beach
Sand and snot I cried and walked miles back to my mother
A mocking jay called on a leaved branch by My window where the porch light shone
How it’s voice quivered for a mate till one late evening I awaited its song and it never returned or whistled it’s disjointed tune.
and I never heard it again.
An owl ate and regurgitated over the white Chevrolet truck.
Dead rats in circular spitted tufts
I understand. He said, chained to the wall. The guard Edmond twirled the key in his finger back and forth again and again and it tickeled as it hit against the wall but the impact did nothing to slow the encircling motion of the key and Edmond laughed.
You understand what. That your trapped
And spiders dropped from his eyelid. Popping out, peeling with legs from him, and his body erupted in bugs.
You understand nothing
He gazed as the wall dripped wet
O surpassing knowledge.
Tusk towards the heaven
The brain. The plan.
Savior in the sinking swamp
Who’s warm rolling probiscus clutches
as the mud clings to the infant wading and a helicopter successfully hovers
a thousand yards above as grandmothers attempt to drag kin
Are we all but to perceived and regurgitate and transcribe
Let us mallieate and mold and arise from the ground paper mache houses spat
from compressed lumber
Gargled from the imitation of beauty
And live once
More in the simple lean against the tree
I’m to **** on my brothers couch
after passing out, what sort of loser at forty years old does that? I’ll say,
I come from a good family I’ll say.
This is my last bottle I’ll say
before it’s bought,
before it’s even 11 pm,
before I come up with an excuse of the death of my cousin months ago.
I’m to crush and indent my temple
upon the grey wash of the concrete at the bus stop,
in the dead of night, where no one will be to pick me up,
I’m to convulse from the subdermal hematoma,
I’m to lay out on the stretcher with my head above my heart to allow it to pool away from the cranium.
I’m to meet someone who says they loves me and doesn’t want me all the same,
I’m going to cry against them,
I’m to just hope they eat there words,
when someone said they’d be there for me,
when someone said I was worth their time,
When someone said I could trust them,
when someone waited for me so we could walk together.
Always rough draft. Will edit
About a daily routine, when one wakes up,
a light flickers
and we know so quickly what hasnt been done yet.
The sanded sheets, feckled
Life like theatre.
what appointment is
made in our head where we all fall.
The calling crows on branches past,
the low lags
The crack in the shell of the crab,
the morsels white and shredded fall forth,
im just questioning,
and wondering what or where I need to be
in future time,
I think that right now some things just seem silly,
I feel that some things just
I’m to be alone for how long
This is the song of death,
the weary sagging eyes have bled
I’ve dripped from the sinew Slow dredges of cough
The bird in flight, who’s grip on on the reddened stick and bouncing brush waving hands of shining leaves like flickering lamp
I’ve had nothing but beer to drink
I’ve had nothing but smoke to sip
As it barrels from my mouth
What soft light bounces between the wooden shudders, These slats in rows.
Let’s grow ugly and fat together
and let the lines of a couch or bed depress into our form of repeated placement as we wear small spectacles and squint anyway as one reads and the other sleeps despite the yellow wash over white linens and deep shadows.
These slats in Rows. Clouded white light
peering around the vestibule.
Nobody walks on their heels with their
head crook to the neck and their eyes
behind. Nobody walks backwards.
I’m not here much longer I don’t think I can take it. Living in uncertainty without an element of death or danger, only monetary insecurity, is the worst stressor which far surpasses the former of having to watch ones back, of having to look forward and plan, of tenting or warming oneself by flame.
This living is death.
I’m to smile today, and it’s not by choice but elation
but laying in the hollows of the wooden floor built up on stilts where every step echos as you slide with socks backwards for just a moment, this conclusion of thought itself in the soft paws and feet treading, where in echos of the depth of the warm pipes and soft dirt and dead lost pets and cabinets of sticky noted named bottles of soap of people long since visited and mounds of photos resounds family.