we’ve traded knowing apples with
lush green mothers of cadmium
and fiberglass
veins of copper,
silver, and gold

siliconed our brains to currents
of controlled thunder

we ****** flat breasted,
hand-sized puddles of glass like
only lesbians and lonely wives
can wish for

iron our souls out
in selfies of people
we wish we were

epoxied our hearts to
shallow resins of hope

we’ve
followed polyester roads
of truth

have we forgotten the
simple flesh of carbon?

the
naked
nitrogen
of our belly buttons?

the
happy
hydrogen
of our eye lids?

the
oxygen of ******?

**** me not
with metals of progress

but with
ancient odes of
skin and calcium
teeth

i’ll take the devil of
old

over this

This is the perfect scene
A man with a siliconed personality
A woman with a siliconed body

This is the perfect scene
People validating themselves through a handheld device.
The environment taken hostage under our pollution.

This is the perfect scene.

you asked what triggers the writing ─

lightning crackling across a roiling sky
a black, lumbering cloud bank spitting out seagulls
a meteor unwinding its tail before plunging into a lake
wet forest floors etched by countless pine needles
orb spider webs clinging, bolted bridge cables
high pitched whistles and chirps in singular silence
moss on fields of mountain boulders dripping beneath
a white fox leaping above snow covered burrow

fire engine red lurking down our street, stopping
food stained Styrofoam, pressed into a corner of refuse
wet blanket near a boarded up store front
rumbling jet howling its decent into a siren busy city
blood in a bag, teeth barred, too many scattered feathers
red robin armies raiding a plump red holly
cold rain, rain, rain, old siliconed gutters, ice shattered ***
a flickering porch light spelling out random Morse code

a twig breaks ...

-cec

eating cranberries from a tree and whispering secrets into the ear of a mule,
spirits guide me.


today is 2017

and I see her on the radio when the clouds darken.

inside of the catacombs sits the sword of leonidus,
still breathing.

I flick on the news and I see heads rolling on the dirt as mothers kick away dustpans full of bones.


a leader is speaking and echoes boom across the pond
and a few words are etched into a tree as dusk follows dawn.


LOL
LOL
LOL
LOL

ROFL
ROFL
ROFL


strawberry toast with jam while nailing slivers of wood into your ***** ****
makes for an interesting Saturday evening in the Hollywood hills.
a cool 78 and fat siliconed ***** with purple streaks make
me dizzy mostly