"mutts" poems
Hailstorms with big winds, trees writhing in breezes
Coyotes howling in moonlight, dogs when they sneezes
Alloys and carved toys, stone gargoyles with wings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Skunk smells carried gently on nocturnal breezes
Sly double entendres and tickley teases
Beautiful salmon colored sunsets that make my jaw drop
Smell of pine 'n cedar in my sauna and wood shop!
Dolphins and doggies and toddlers and mooses
Saunas and cold plunges and honking V-flying gooses
Small mutts and storytellers and Pixar cartoons
Crazy call of the Maine dark of night loons
These are some of my nurturing tunes!
Volcanoes with lava and magma all oozing
Cross country skiing just gliding and cruising
Receiving massages unwinding and unbruising
I love my collections of adhesives and strings
These are a few of my favorite things!
So when the wasps sting
When the bored people whine
Wen I'm feeling dispirited and sad
I just think of a few of my favorite things
And I don't feel…so…bad!
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
How can I ever tell you that
in the 21st century,
as innocent as you are,
you will be sexualized.
It started with
one peak under that skim cloth
that made you an icon
Halloween costumes
turned your baby face into
the mask of a "babe"
There are no more dogs
struggling to tear your short shorts
now only mutts scattering clubs
hands dangling onto your belt loops
as if they were in the middle of a hurricane
You, Coppertone Baby, didn't know any better
you were minding your own **** business
vacationing on the beach
when somebody had the audacity to snap a picture
of your ***
Sweet little girl,
you are us.
You are society's expectations of innocent women
so easily willing to publicize our bodies
printed on billboards
sold in magazines
You put your hair up for vanity
but we tie our hair back to avoid
violent hands
You, Coppertone Baby
will never be known as Cheri,
just like today,
we are branded into the clothes made to hide our bodies
but couldn't do it enough
we are the voiceless
We are the shadows hiding behind anatomy
we are nip-slips
we are on the front cover
of ******* magazines
You grew up not expecting it
merely existing
only knowing the words,
"mommy and daddy."
Welcome, Coppertone Baby,
to the present, not so much a gift
where your first words are now,
"thank you"
the camera is constantly pointed
constantly asking you to sit pretty
you will learn to avoid beaches
and only buy the clothes
that suffocate your skin
I know you were meant to sell sunscreen
but how can I ever buy your product
if I can't even hardly
go outside.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
They come in many different sizes
Different colors, different cuts
All purebred from Poodle planet
No mixing of Martian mutts
Innocently enough we let them into our homes
Now with too many it is to little to late
We've been taken captive without even knowing
By Poodles from Outer Space
Soon, very soon to take over it all
Ruling the world of common man
Getting us to do their bidding at every call
Has all along been their dastardly plan
Leading us to believe that we are the Masters
But what is really behind the bark
And what's up with all the tail wagging
Just waiting it out while playing their cards
And the crazed frenzy in all of the yapping
That they do while roaming in packs
Is just giving away their location
So the Mother Ship knows where they are at
As it continues to circle our planet
In the unassuming shape of a Milk-Bone
The Alien Poodles are in cahoots with Purina
Google it, you'll see I'm not wrong
Years ago they first landed in France
Where quickly they blended in
From there is where they ventured out
Into all the major Continents
Now in every corner of the world
In all of its crooks and crannies
Saying hello to those in the know wherever they go
By their Planet's greeting...the sniffing of *****
Yes, they are Poodles from Outer Space
So toss that dog a bone
If you ever wonder who is in charge
And who it is that's owned...
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
i am a needy teen with
dreams that i need to chase
and words i need to hear
and even things that i need
to experience in life
but instead
i sit here wondering
why my life is so
******* up,
silence around me
people are still and
i'm still trapped here
listening to the lies
and gossip from these
mutant mutts
if only i could escape
forever.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
*** slave workers
Bent over stained beds
In forgotten brothels
Far from country and home
Have more joy than you
Or I.
Skeleton thin children
With skin stretched
Over illness bloated bellies
In poverty ridden streets
Under a relentless sun
And equally relentless culture
Kick a worn ball around
And feel more hope than you
Or I.
Flea ridden mutts
Runts of the brood
Feasting on garbage
Shying from the kicks
Of rotten teens
And sour drunks
Reciprocate more love
From the hand of a kind stranger
Than you
To I.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
THEY put up big wooden gods.
Then they burned the big wooden gods
And put up brass gods and
Changing their minds suddenly
Knocked down the brass gods and put up
A doughface god with gold earrings.
The poor mutts, the pathetic slant heads,
They didn't know a little tin god
Is as good as anything in the line of gods
Nor how a little tin god answers prayer
And makes rain and brings luck
The same as a big wooden god or a brass
God or a doughface god with golden
Earrings.
1.8k
i leaned against my mother's kitchen sink
crying
six shots of whiskey deep at half passed noon
and both mutts came running
leaning their limber legs against mine
a heart-felt interspecies hug
ready and willing to catch my salty tears
upon the bridge of their snouts
so this is true love
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
They nickel and dime me
So money can't find me
While debt keeps climbing
With inconvenient timing
A note reading foreclosure
Spells my doom
As a realtor's brochure
Sells my room
Poverty looms
Over my head
As everything is taken
Even the bread
And what I use to bake it
They come with a gun
Demanding that I run
They tell me I can't stay here
Police presence engenders fear
So this place I once held dear
Will no longer be near
And the bank
Maintains rank
Over the poor
Locking the door
So I hit the floor
Hatred in my core
I adopt an attitude
Of eat or be eaten
This simple platitude
Will get me beaten
Money isn't that hard to make
If that's all you're trying to do
Yet they take all they can take
Like they've got something to prove
They don't mind
Separating bees from the hive
Power is control money buys
So the rich are seen as wise
Even if they're destroying the world
Forcing families from their homes
And now the rocks they hurl
Are delivered by drones
From lethality to loans
We're stripped to the bone
And feel all alone
On a planet of exploitation
It's tough to live the full duration
When we're stuck at a bus station
Called placation
Where the wealthy do what they want
Because they have money to flaunt
Giving them status and power
To build their ivory tower
By evicting delinquents
And bombing huts
A dog-like sequence
We're treated like mutts
The cumulus accumulate
Usurping heaven's gate
Creating a second rate
Decrepit estate
For us to deflate
Into a state
Of hate
And wait
For a mate
To feel great
So our slate
Has low weight
But once it gets late
We ask for a rebate
We run for the frivolous
But that fun is insidious
And it's slowly killing us
From emptiness filling us
We withdraw into shells
Of similar mundane hells
Until the bank comes knocking
Then into the streets we're flocking
While they're progress blocking
And pistol cocking
We kneel and worship them
Begging for mercy
They're the problem's stem
Yet we wear their jersey
Which is absolute insanity
But money controls humanity
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 12:57 AM UTC
Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers..
You know them
You've seen them
I hope you aren't one of them...
I don't drink
Not anymore
For my entertainment
I go to the store
I go out after dinner
That's when the show will start
I go and watch the people
Who shop at Wal-Mart
Cowboy boots, a tutu, and yoga pants with ***
with a muscle shirt and top hat
worn by a man named REX
a pair of pants just hanging
a pair of crocs and leather vest
with "she loves me for my money"
emblazoned on the chest
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
I don't go clubbing
There's no fun in that
Late night trips to Wal-Mart
That, is where it's at
A woman dressed in plastic
a man all painted blue
and how many people have you seen
that look like escapees from the zoo
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Underpants, and stockings
garters and blue jeans
size 50 denim jumpers
Stretched like skinny jeans
Men wearing high heels
Women wearing...well
Use your imaginations
From a distance you can't tell
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Body parts free to see
******* and legs and butts
And people with their little dogs
The ugly, squeaky mutts
We know them
and we watch them
Take their photos
Yes....we do.
dress right when you go shopping
Or we may take one of you!!!
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
*they are my famiglia
they are italian, polish and maltese,
probably a lot of other things too
we're basically mutts
there are five of us, if you include the dog
they are the best
there's my mom;
i call her "ma" or "woman" or "mom" or "mama" or "rochelle", if i want to irritate her
she's the best cook in the world
she always calls me her "bambina"
and sings me songs and writes me cute notes
she's my best friend and biggest fan (sorry dad)
i'm convinced she can read my mind,
even when i'm 2 1/2 hours away, she can tell when something's wrong
she's the best mom in the world
and then, there's my dad;
i call him "dad" or "daddy" or "bob" because he doesn't seem to care
he's hilarious and actually tells good dad jokes
he loves talking about
government conspiracies and
new health trends he's trying
he calls my mom just to say "i love you" and buys me flowers on valentine's day because "i want you to know what a man should do for you one day"
he's so great, i hope i marry a man like bob one day
and there's my brother;
i call him "bro" or "broski" or usually just, "bobby"
he loves me with all his heart
but cannot hug me
because his ocd clouds his mind
he's funny and loves the oldies
he also loves trips to chipotle with me
he won't tell me about girls
because "you'll tell mom," but will talk to me about everything else
gosh i love him with all my heart too
and there's my dog;
who we all call "boo" and sometimes i call him some random nickname
he's so cute, but super vicious
one minute he'll be curled up in-between your legs and the next?
he's attacking you and biting you in the lip
he's scared of thunderstorms and fireworks and people, really he's scared of everything
he's not perfect, but he loves me and i love him
and then, there's me;
they call me "dee-dee" or "aubs" or plain old, "aubrey"
i'm the first born pain in the ****
who's dream is to marry a nice christian man, own a cafe, adopt children, have children, and just have a great family
currently, i'm in college, missing my great family
my current dream would be, sitting on the couch with my dog on my lap, my mom cooking in the kitchen, my dad hanging out in the garage building something cool, and my brother playing video games and complaining about me taking over the bathroom we share.
can you tell i miss them?
can you tell i love them?*
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 2:51 PM UTC
We are like neutered mutts,
drowsily as we sate on.
100 years of 24 frames per second
left too many of us wondering about the future
while reflecting on a past
never engaged in the present
always being.
The radio is concerned,
a voice drones on
flies over our head
and broadcasts into the living room.
This energy is a wave, follow the sin
Your body already knows how to covert the pressure
into electricity for your receptors.
Later, we stand at the altar
of boys with guitars
of boys with mics
The aux cable beheads his neck
we pardoned a sea of excuses
The F/A-18 drops the mic.
Women salivate the crowd.
That other gentile touch.
Throw a burka on that *****
Magazine dictate should we be?
Clip up pandora,
the liquid streams on.
There was never a box.
You were just born with fingers and toes
to touch ears to hear eyes to see a brain
to think to receive a nose
to breath a mouth to kiss and say,
"There is disappointment everywhere but still I love."
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
The drops fall and we are nothing but the
soft splash and shock of sound
left over in the ears of
kings and beggars
before another drop catches the
sense of the slowly falling.
A drop will roll down the window of a skyscraper
towering
above the hustle and bustle of
broken dreams
and new promises.
A drop sinks into the pit of filth and slumbers with the dogs feeding off scraps in the gutter.
A drop lands in the eye of the man with the axe.
It falls on the mother
grasping
the child.
Everything melts into the sky to fall once again.
A cycle of death and rebirth.
Drop on the window,
you hold no more power than the mutts.
I wish to land in the ocean and sink to the bottom where the cycle can never mind me.
Launch me into the heavens where the stars can stare in wonder at the confusing being entering their world.
Let me fall into a vial and float away oh lord...
Is my hand against the sun all they cannot take away from me?
My eyes burn and blind but still I stare into your eyes with loving fury and tenacious acceptance.
Ride on against the current, you will not win and I hope this makes you fight harder
my
lovers, my brothers, and my others.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Grind & Pivet
Leveled out playgrounds buried in the valley
Foaming mutts pursue for as many yards as their yard allows
Old campers, corrugated fibre-glass plates and upside down canoes
Piles of plywood piled in meticulous patterns
St. Aidan's Church
A beat up old Buick
Nostalgialand
The Palo Alta Vista stretches and yawns in the morning
The crack of joints
Black arches over the horizon, cumulus towering
The sun, ready to ****
Anoyone not ready
For rebirth
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Girl, you're in the city
and so the day is a little pretty.
My drug use today
is my thoughts of you
'cause I feel so good
reminiscing about the old views--
When we were blind for each other.
Two mutts in love for the summer.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC
in time
our life forming rituals
when woman held man in common
gentle willing people a tribe conformed
by wisdom of woman thriving with women
these creators of humanity in frame work survival
of living on planet Earth the hours indifference
the east to the west the Earth rising east
into the new days Star the west darkness prevails
as the world turns east the hours given
for the Earth of the west to rise in east Star rays
as the world turns womb in and man
building life customs a living family the sexes
creation performing rituals
to hold power over both sexes in tribe
between them bringing water to the table
from the well of the forest primeval
we *** advancing the daily rituals in time
not knowing the outcome in survival
our knowledge is common of good or evil
our humanity or power of greed
our family bound to survival of our being
gentle people cast down mutts of power
gentle people up held by wisdom
the living as one wisdom of womb in and of man
not **** power greed a tribe of humanity
to continue the beginning dominate
the right of spirit beings to intellectualize
producing decisions a *** beginning nurturing
an utter speaking from the heart of woman
profound utterings these ******* of womb in
from her to eternity the ******* of woman uttering
the real Mc Coys in the darkness of time
a first uttered sound this life light hidden
a beginning of human soul the memory our utterings
thru power greed over humanity
we live off planet Earth held
in regions of space to incubate the humanity
movement of space life held by the darkness of man
unable to break the bonds of tyranny
to return Earth wisdom to light
for the stars utter humanity
a flower child hue being ultimate receptor life stance
giving off light as fragrance
available knowing life choices as flowers
of the Stars we are earth buds exposed
by the rays of creation an eon of time
standing swaying in earth winds our moment
of life becoming a chance of a life time
to create form flow of the Universe expansion
star light to build the uttering of time
humanity rise above power greed
know all we can live and be the one
Universe of love nurturing in utter harmony
Universe of creation this life realm
made from an utter in time
a being of humanity shines on this earth
let life shine back to the Stars
give the right of creation
the love of mind............gjmars 6/14/15
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
We are a nation of immigrant mutts
mutated by instant entertainment,
the faceless muddled by Facebook,
***** tricked down by twitter,
**** MySpace what we need is
our space.
A place better left for tomorrow, if the sun itself doesn't fall in our laps, just to show us what it means to burn.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that can't speak.
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that break their own bones and choke on their teeth.
Hi my names Lauren and I see kids with bruises, kids with no excuses, kids with cuts, kids howling at the moon like mutts. They're begging to get out of their skin and into a more feral suit, they want their bite to be worse than their bark, hang themselves in the park, finally be noticed, glowing smiles like that of an alley cat, spat out blood last week, "must've been the pills, that **** kills."
Hi my names Lauren and I forget my name a lot. I write it in the hearts of heartfelt hoodlums, not so brave victims, mothers' worst nightmares, mothers who don't care, boys who dare set themselves on fire, light it up ****** you aren't getting any brighter.
Hi my names God and I ****** up.
Hi my names Lauren and I talk to the dead. They tell me about the papers they keep under the bed, poems no one reads and suicide notes with things unsaid.
Hi I'm Lauren and the dead can't dance when they speak. They're not too steady on their feet, dangling from rafters with chairs beneath.
Hi I'm Lauren and I ****** up, you ****** me up. You won't talk to me, and he won't look at me, and dad can't stand me and mom tries her best to understand me and I once hit my head so hard on the wall I fainted. Yes mom, it was on purpose. I thought we painted that pretty picture in my blood months ago.
Hi I'm Lauren and I write poems that don't lie about the truth, I write poems about depressives, lost boys, starving boys, ****** boys, and my boys. Those all go hand in hand. I write poems about heartache, bone break, undertake, and personality fake. These are all the same. I write poems about things I've seen, things I've done, things I've ****** and threads that were spun into ropes tied into nooses and put behind the pile of ***** laundry on the floor. I write about pills in dressers and knives in scabby skin and how much I hate god but love his children and how my brain is broken and I'm still stuck hoping I'll be left with something to write about next time I forget my name but can remember yours.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
and even though
people told her that they
were always there for her
she didn't quite believe it
but how could you
believe such a thing,
when all they did was
pity the ones hurting
she didn't need pity
she needed comfort and
understanding
they talked, and talked
but they couldn't do anything
about the problem
just gossip about it
like mangy mutts
and that night,
while she lay in bed
listening to them pity the
death
she thought,
"no one cares unless you're pretty or dying"
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Easy will I give blood to thee
My love of anger simmering.
Tough mutts and breezy gates shut up while I'm walking up the paved path to heaven.
My shadows carve depictions of their home across it's border, until the time that obliteration comes preceding daylight.
Presently, the senses tell stories of alleyways, bending, screaming, dark, and hollow niches where cells holding cretins feeding on easy cons, closely eyeing the greasy pawns that wobble across rotting paper, voodoo art a secret guarded closely hidden in the hole a beating heart long ago vacated. Robbing rich snobbish ****** their childrens life of ignorance concerning newfound addictions.
You know the type.
You know that I know you too, and how you prefer to shape the ghastly forms these predators take, turn them into your thralls discarded soon after rehearsing the parts of your play, writtin precisely to incite your own addiction to probability gamble gaming intuition. trashing skits naturally reactive to exhibited patterns laughing mad at the victms thrashing quiver, stashing films of the accidents in your pack to gift the sadistic mastiffs attack and ravage and tear and
Sadness.
The fictitious movies play out onto the skyscape of this mind we share, and attempt to accept the last thing you truly fear.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 10:40 AM UTC
Am I everything I said I couldn't be,
To see is to see is to be,
Apparently,
In the circle of life, this cycle
A recycle of bicycle tries and left behinds
i stayed behind?
Why should I mind the carnal bind between sin and mankind?
From birth to death
Defect
Affected the infected
US
us?
US
FROM THE LUST TO THE MUSTS
THE MUTTS WE'RE ABOVE SUCH SAID 'EQUALITY OF'
THE RUST THAT REPLACED US,
DEFACED AND ERASED US
THEY CAN'T TAKE US
they can't take us?
did you forget what this about?
your doubt and your bout with your 'is this all I can think about'
and you call yourself a devout...
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:29 AM UTC
The World’s perception of Christianity
is generally, an unimpressed disappointment;
we’re viewed as a collection of mongrel mutts,
housed at the local dog pound, foolishly
chasing rainbows for our lost contentment.
Although we’re not domesticated watchdogs,
collared and chained to the Master’s table
while begging for spiritual scraps of Faith,
they believe that we’re hoping for crumbs
to overcome a meager existence, simply unable
to grow and mature with the King’s wisdom.
If we’re not progressing with our victories
and experiences of success, the World’s view
and attitude will not change; therefore, we
need to develop our Faith and testimonies.
.
.
.
Author Notes
Inspired by:
Matt 15:27; Mark 7:28; Rev 12:11
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
amazon (dot) com
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful
alienation, expulsion, ostracization
from body politick
if member of society resistant,
indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
(across the figurative board)
intolerance opposing ethos,
asper unspoken social graces extant
(albeit manifested amidst diverse
livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas
automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
challenging precepts via rave and/or rant
thus when born into whatever culture,
steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
til ivy blue in the face,
or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost
hence creative pursuits one direction
can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
with perceived restrictive parameters
and cuss like a sailor
with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
With The Stars), or
choosing subterfuge viz
writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer
daemons spring to life, when computer code
following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler
(case in point - myself, hoot
ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
greater reason to rage
against the machine before
turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
with equal pay, cuz a working wage
aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
of this pooch iz gaseous
boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
with other nerdy mutts.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
She noted, grimly cognizant of though unamused by the irony,
That her likeness, or something akin to that,
Appeared on the poster—a gray-clad strong and vibrant woman
Reaching, in concert with her comrades
(One woman in a white coat, a man in overalls and requisite cap,
Still another androgynous figure in a futuristic ensemble
Resembling some cross of a Western science fiction movie
And some cheap Petrograd-made tin foil)
Toward a hammer-and-sickle adorned moon
Soon to be conquered by a similarly festooned rocket ship.
She is no scientific apparatchik, no technically gifted party functionary;
It is her job to feed the canine occupant of this mission to the cosmos
(Two mutts from the Moscow streets, she confides to Ilysa,
One of the few co-workers who can be trusted with such a statement.)
The dog, she notes without any trace of rancor, eats quite well,
Better than she does in truth,
But it is a series of last meals for the condemned,
For there is no secret as to the dog’s eventual fate
(Poor cur, he has no idea he is doomed,
One of the scientists clucks sadly,
Though she simply shrugs in reply,
Knowing a test or a trap when she sees it,
Though she thinks to herself He is far from alone)
And, after she has cleaned up the remnants of the dog’s dinner,
She heads back to her one-room flat on the Yaseneavaya Boulevard,
Noting ruefully, as she ascends the crumbling, unsteady steps
Leading to her blocky, faceless building,
That the omnipresent klieg lighting of the street lamps
Serves to obscure any trace of the heavens in the night sky.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
Don’t tell your mother when she visits
home that I sleep beneath frayed house
shoes, under floorboards, noticing
creaks. Or how I pulled the trigger
here, to my chest, and after how you
fled along the highway, dropping a second
.40 though, out the window (still loaded with a slug
meant for you) where tire-marked
mutts bleed, sinking with wild sage
growing in blacktop
weeds. Tell her I watch you crawl
into your bed and still try to keep you
warm, beside your father. Still living
behind these walls I feel his thumbs
press into my skin, (closing
bullet belly-holes) while my icy fingers sew
him a new pair of wrists. Ask your mother, why she forced
separate beds on her lover-mate, and why
the running pink from his arms still stain
our kitchen sink. Let her heavy *****
know, (it's not her fault) she
shoved us from this single-bath
American rancher, with one foodstamp
still hidden in her blue-jean back
pocket and with the Walmart all the ways across
a black-clouded interstate. Make sure
she welcomes these trapped ghosts hanging on
wooden clothesline-pinned sheets, swaying
with wind gusts from the highway where unlucky stray dogs
bleed, sinking with wild sage growing in blacktop weeds.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC