bite me,
so you did.

with pine slivers
plucked from vertical thrones by an unpolished stone,
you plunged
(hapless heathen),
becoming the ripple that would knock charon to the floor.

the ark bowed down,
drenching us all in the needles of your sunken oar.

night bursts open
egg sack spills
tadpoles wriggling
dead light
no Eye

keep screaming.
there's no sound in space.

Bifurcated, broken thing,
longing to belong again,
hangs with hangmen from a string
along a wall of wallowing.

Speak of pain, he speaks no more
but rasps his voice against the door.
Save me, sir, what is in-store?
Salesmen smile and take the floor.

Cauterized with spit 'til dry
lies the spider with the fly.
Of one, blood made two one-alike.
Awry, awry, what's left is right.

Lonesome at last what alone begins,
ten hundred is but ten handfuls of ten.
The hunted, hungered will soon bends
as all are lost as all will end.

We make scratching posts of cats,
call it nature’s design
as if God were the sun and to save our eyes
we turned our voices to the moon,
singing to the shadow of a bigger man.

Yesterday, I misread the word 'matinee' as 'manitee'
and was filled with a curious glee.
My disappointment upon mistake's discovery
were as if I myself had been a manitee
who'd thought, finally, the world has noticed me.

But so it is the rare must remain
unseen and mistaken, or else refrain
from inspiring what wonder they could not otherwise sustain
should their absence cease to breed hunger,
and hunger, greater gain.