The sky is melting.
Five hundred plus two-fifty sliding
down on loose rocks and slick dirt.
Can’t stop all that metal
when the sky is melting,
and my face matches.
But I am alive.
3 comments on When the Sky Melts
Category: Poetry
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hashtags ate the long
poems that once graced tongues
or crawled on pages
and pages.
Give us sonnets
fitted to fake type-written memes.
Word porn corrupts
and now,
drink your digestible quote. -
Two Objects Fall in Love
He walks by them every day
And they silently reach for him
Their twigs, red, strain to touch him
Their branches, yellow, pining for him
Soft lines grasping upwards
Swishing, stiff tendrils; naked, waving;
His shining face reflects his owner
His sleek hard body reflects his lovers
He doesn’t know, keys clacking softly
Fans cooling him, he can’t remember,
Even with access to the whole world,
That they wait, planted in the soil
Yearning for him
Wanting him
Missing him
Growing. -
I’m not afraid anymore.
I watch the dirty yellow half moon
Sink on the horizon piercing the lazy clouds
Like a rusty scalpel slicing tired flesh
I remember the pain and the sting of the blade
And the hate in my heart going inward
Imploding, red, faint, infinitely bitter
Undeserving of any lot, cast one, taking it and hating it
I blame myself, but really it’s me making the chamber that life will gas me in.
I’ll die sooner or later. Sometimes sooner if I can beat the rusty moon to the blade
Probably later, she doesn’t share, and I’m not afraid anymore.
Margarine is Murder 
