“‘S’cuse me ma’am. I’m lost.
I can’t find grandpa nowhere.”
“Funeral room five.”
“‘S’cuse me ma’am. I’m lost.
I can’t find grandpa nowhere.”
“Funeral room five.”
What’s lost is mine now.
Now somehow you want it back.
Gotta catch me first.
Pond swells after rain
Cactus bitter at it all
Progress down the drain
Knock, hinges, then light
Gentle, cold touch as bill mounts
“like to go home please…”
She told her father
But he couldn’t disannul.
Head hung, she went on.
“This isn’t too hard.”
Then she fell hard off the bike.
“And life moves on still!”
If I had to choose,
Criticism than lashings.
Lashings than to die.
Didn’t feel as dirty as I wanted it to. Just hunting the deer and understanding the death of the animal… I later on smell metal as I feel the air coming through the grill in the truck. The doe sprawled across the front of my truck is the bloodiest part of my life. All else is peaceful and full of life. The only death is what I hunt.
What is not gradient?
What flow of time isn’t eventual memory loss?
What remembrance wasn’t each day feeling the real thing less and less and then transferring sensation into delusional perception—for the sake of not fading?
What isn’t gradient?
It should not even be a word.
What catatonic love wasn’t daily forgetting why anything was worth the efforts?
Who is born as man?
Who is born, skin already taught?
Flesh nearly ready to burst?
Ready to give up into deadly
nothing but still
Floating into air like interpretive dance and all muscles pulsing?
Who is born man?
What song isn’t transition from now until the end?