I nurture the creator in you;
the little god that throbs to be master of
words and colors, lines and notes.
I watch you give birth to it.
I see how it squeezes out of
your brain and crawls across
the floor- all ****** and wet.
It's alive and glorious and grotesque.
You're immortal- a giver of life.
I hold it to my face, and breathe in
the smell of rain, pine trees, and desire.
I kiss its fur, and taste the
fires of hell, cardamom, and oysters, raw and sweet.
I feed it a bowl of saffron threads, soaked in milk,
stare into its wild black eyes; I can hear
it hum a tune in B flat minor, and I wonder,
whose seed is this?

It's about being
ruthless

with the weeds
not much grass

anymore

these days I find
myself

on defense always blocking
life's punches

and attempting to level out  
the ubiquitous uneven cut

ready with eyes
darting

this way and that
watching

for the next battle
sight unseen

or dandelion

Whit Howland © 2020

The field's on fire

wrath
and natural selection

loose in the commons

dying to ****
killing to die

this is no dress rehearsal
no prank

the breath of life
melts

into playground psychosis

triggering
the finger of a false god

summoned in the blackness

to try and choke humanity's
guiding flame

(but on it burns)

Is it our eye
or

is the blue sky
much

bluer
through cheap

motel glass we
always

paint
the most beautiful pictures

of the things we never get
to have

and that I believe
is just another example

of how truly
beautiful

the mind really
is

Whit Howland © 2020