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Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
Deep underwater
we blow unwilling bubbles
pockets of blue air
Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
There exists an area between hurt and healed called scarred
it's a place that isn't found—but revealed
tectonic plates protecting the core
my vibrating feet split the earth
forming my fault of separation
passive plains give way to cliffs and valleys
your seismograph detected  tremors
so you escaped to safer ground
outside my sightline from inside the trench emerging
memories are all I need to dig deeper
so remembrance goes through a grainy filter
glorifying the other side of my grave of grime
engendering assumptions of purity lying
beyond the fresh dirt door
where the undead hold their light sticks and disco *****
creating light without illumination
I stumble into them like a moth at night
bumping into the last vestiges of light
they say multiplying two negatives equals a positive
but this whole keeps going deeper
we just acclimate to the depths
making a competition of going furthest down
excavating our descent by expanding the division in the land
until magma erupts
lighting the voluminous pit
revealing the hell we've dug
trickster shadows dance along the sides
hypnotizing the feral demons staring
slack-jawed at the empty canvas of the cave walls
attributing the beauty of what they've missed to ghosts
telling ourselves our horns make us unique
until the lava starts burning us
as a reminder of humanity
continuation ensures incineration
yet this cavern has become my home
after convincing myself I belong here
so everybody hysterically huddles together
to protect themselves from the consequences
oozing from the pressurized center
I squeeze to fit into the middle of the crowd
putting bodies between myself and the nothingness that awaits
watching fellow spelunkers burn
while hoping the inevitable doesn't reach me
the liquid flame consumes my carcass
there's so many directions to fling the fire in
but I benignly accept my fate
knowing this is all my fault.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
My brother and I explored a ravine
in our younger years. A wooded
labyrinth where the auburn
mist of fallen leaves
covered the floor
like a Burmese
tiger pit.

My brother
and I discovered
a lake, which became
a creek, which became
a swamp. I must've found
something exciting, because
I began sprinting homeward in a
juvenile fervor. Penetrating the
leafy shroud with my eager
feet. Unaware of traps
set subtly for those
tramping  through
the wilderness.

A nail,
I stepped
on a nail in my
recklessness. My
tennis shoe armor proved
futile against the steel weaponry.
Completely exposing my vulnerable
sole, the spiked interloper sank
its lone fang into me. The
pain shot through my
foot until ambulatory
abilities all but
vanished.

I didn't watch
where I was stepping
and landed on an inadvertent
weapon.
I should've
known the pollution of man
would stab me in my
outstretched hand.

A lesson was
learned about
paranoia and why
it exists. Even if I watch
where I'm going, polluters
will slit my wrists until the findings
of the swamp are forgotten in favor of scars.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
“Hey, I heard about your accident. I’m here for you if you need to talk.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll keep that in mind. By the way I heard about your breakup and I’m here to talk if you need to as well.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

...

...

...
Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
Distant coddled
alabaster runs wild
savoring the vortex of a
muscle mired maelstrom
Caligula's throne sits in the eye of the hurricane
we write letters to ourselves—self absolving sin
rhetorical ramparts squelch responsibility
free wind tickles the tips of branches, the trees stay still.

Broken bastion bereaved
bunkers are built for sandstorms
whether we weather the weather
or fall victim to the tsunami
there's a climate change in our self addressed letters—
they become less about love, more about death
after we see the treasure chest in the executioner's cache.

Devastation hollows the oppressed
a free agent becomes a Super Bowl champ
by defeating those who traded him
a letter sent home reads—I joined the winning team,
equality is inferior to superiority
those in glass houses throw stones
once they're invading stone houses.

Race to the top                sink to the bottom
of a valley where black sheep roam and scapegoats graze
waiting to become predatory lions
gnawing on the structured bones of lost wildebeests.
Wild animals don't write themselves letters
their only signature is their presence
an aura of selfish instinct.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
I don’t want to consume art to escape my life
I want art that makes me confront my life
I want art that uncovers my blind faults
and reveals my secret triumphs.
What do I need to change?
Why do I need to change?
How do I need to change?
And why is the time for change now?
These questions help me escape from needing escapism.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2020
I’m worried for my country and myself.
Microscopic maybes master my maze.
The undead use the unborn to fight the living.
If I were a zygote would they love me more?
I guess what could be is more appealing than what is.
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