Bolted digits, rootbound to acrid heavens,

ostrichly I swallow sand, begging the heaviness

to parch my flaming veins and ceaselessly flowing sorrows.



Sparrow’s fleeting raison d'être, sipping eyes of iceberg hue,

quenching mine own of verdant leaf; long-awaited view

to fill my soul’s windows’ empty absinthe pools.



No somber adieus, simply one smile of lightning.

His passing thunder will resound beneath my ribs

from the arrows of his glacial spheres

forevermore.

We were never meant to stay
In one place, neither seat nor heart,
For very long, but here we are
At rest, letting our roots take hold
And creep into the voids and pipes.
In spite of the human trope toward
Things which keep them alive,
It’s clear, by the way we must smoke
To get some fresh air
Away from the dust and self-importance
In the vents
That we have to **** ourselves
Just to socialize,
That, to go anywhere, enjoy anyone else
We have to break the rules.
My haunches ache when should my feet
From walking,
My back aches from stresses of the head
Not from lifting,
All this bodywork comes from being
Immobile, the pain of sitting still,
The new smoking—and what am I left with
But rootbound habits and new fears
Of diseases exchanging dis-ease?