How you become a part of the earth, and away from it.
Grab your furs and your moss. Pull them closer.

I have tried to walk near the entangled forest.
Its belly is swollen and impregnable.

Its warm tongue flicked at me. “It’s just a fever.”
Though you flail your arms dismissively
as though to ward off danger.

There is a malice in everything that whispers.

“It’s just a drop of blood,” you say.
Though it draws you out in anger.

It doesn’t mean something.
Though your eyes are prophetic, crowing for the dead.
Still.

Everything in unity.

This white morning may destroy me.
How I bend and unbend without my acquiescence.

By nightfall my eyes will be moons.
I will open for a moment
and blink out.
Swift as dust.

Both hands in my pockets, a blank page tucked in my shoe,
Call it a list of every little thing I wouldn’t give for you,
Traded the city for salvation, but found neither kingdom nor crown,
We were too young for such silence, and far too old to settle down,
Now standing on a subway platform, New York buzzing overhead,
My skull sick with the ghosts off all the things we never said,
Pale skin caked with shadows, dull eyes lit low with fear,
Please bring me back to you, or any place that isn’t here.

Most meaningful
Creator
Of nothing
Teacher about
How
Nothing can be found
Heard, yes
Seen, no
Found, no
Not here, not there
Not on the ground
Or in the air
Never found
Anywhere
I speak of sound

Sean Hunt
October 2015

"strange"
                                                 is declared
                                                  of person
                                         who rationalizes
                                                that­ matter if
                                         non-human
                                         non-animal
                                         non-living
                                      merits recognition
                                      as being good
                                      on it's own

                                      but really      
                                         are we
                                         the ultimate stewards
                                               of absolute purpose?

                         what confirms                      our judgement

                                        in deeming what deserves
                                             to exist for it's own
                                             and what belongs
                                                 to our means
                                                           ­                 and ours alone?

                                      is it so fantastic
                                                  to suggest
                                      that by some means of
                                                           indefiniteness
                                                  ­of intangible
                                                                ­            comprehension
                                                all matter
                                       is fundamentally intertwined
                                               in the sense
                                            everything is stardust
                                             created by
                                                                ­   the universe's omnipotent hand?

                                      don't you
                                                 ever get the feeling
                                      inside of your conscious
                                                       ­           too?

                                      doesn't your awareness
                                               ever whisper
                                                   as a sentience
                                                you have an obligation
                                                from some unspoken contract
                                                    sign­ed before birth
                                                  to uphold the integrity
                                                  of everything
                                                  that­ inhabits this earth
                                                       whether or not
                                  it thinks in the way                                       you do?

                                      for what purpose
                                           we exist assembled into
                     abrupt                 profound               togetherness
                                      remains       ­      undecided

                                      earth's fabrications
                                                 will survive
                                               harmoniously
                                      but
                                will you
                 do the same?

he wallows in the slop,  
seemingly unable to stop  
alliteration is his biggest sin  
grimly gripping grand and grotesque lines alike
rhythm and rhyme are somewhere  
deep in the heap of crap
he cranks out  

similes are his favorites
but parsimonious as desert dew
when he hunts for one
that's new

metaphors bounce beyond
his reach, on harder ground  
than the pen he shares with hogs
doubtless the domain of dogs  
far bigger than he