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 Aug 2013 Alien
hkr
lmcm
 Aug 2013 Alien
hkr
i loved your big, strong arms
but your beating heart is gone
your beating heart
is gone.
 Aug 2013 Alien
eIectrifying
it's 8:19 pm on a friday night
and i'm inside wondering about everything not human
i wonder if butterflies have social calendars
and if any of them are ever left out by their counterparts
or if blades of grass have issues with their parents
and if their father tells them they better straighten up
or else they'll be cut to bits by the lawn mower
or perhaps if the moon has anxiety
over all the little things it illuminates
during the dark hours of the night
maybe the tide feels uneasy
washing away shattered dreams
and long forgotten kisses
that have been shared upon its shores
i wonder if bumblebees really care about anything
other than collecting pollen
or if all they really want
is to come home and let their wings rest
for maybe just a minute
maybe birds care for more than just their children
and finding food and shelter for the day
i wonder if they ever have disputed with each other
or ever look down upon us humans
and wonder why we're leading lives
we don't want to lead
you see i wonder if everything on this earth
that's not a human being
wonders about us
about why we care so much
and perhaps why we care too little
i wonder if they notice the pain that emanates from our hearts
i wonder if they can feel the slow drag in our step
i wonder if they know
that we would rather be anything
other than ourselves
i wonder
 Aug 2013 Alien
verdnt
If you need 
to see how old

I really am

just take a sharp blade

to my middle

and count the ring-
worms inside.

I’ve been keeping

my words, lately,

somewhere other

than here,

here where

my throat itches

with the dusty pollen

of verbal pollution

with every click.
You are beautiful,

so too are your words,

they could paint the sky,

and I could paint you

white.


What’s the point?

I’m finding satisfaction

in separation of self

from symbolism

and I would ask you

all to join me.

How many rings

did you find?

I am nearly 100-years

and a few more days

and I’m having a hard time

swallowing.


I keep choking

on air. That’s how old

I really am.

I keep a journal

in the dirt

but it keeps washing away

but at least the rain

doesn’t equate my fragments

to my figure.

At least the sun

has the decency to apologize

for burning bits of me

into the earth.

— The End —