Preying/Prayer (2 of 30: 2018)

As a child I operated under
the misconception that
it was ‘preying’ mantis
rather than ‘praying’ mantis.

And I get why the gesture
is used in the name,
they do have a rather invocative stance,
but they are so associated in my mind
with hunting and killing—
hummingbirds, mostly—
that preying seemed/seems apt still.

And isn’t the mantis a perfect pairing
of preying and prayer? That they are
naturally pious in the cannibalization
of each other, that their prayers
are often answered in blood—
from hummingbirds, mostly.

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A Growing Cynicism (1 of 30: 2018)

Spring is burgeoning
in the wizened hand of winter
but there is still snow on the horizon—
even as the mosquitos begin their equivalent-to-fucking.

It’s really something to watch the world turn,
to watch life running, fucking circles around itself,
and this renewal makes the earth feel almost infinite
in its capacity to replenish; all while we choke the light out.


i never think i’m going to do this and then it’s 11:50-something.. on 1 april.. again.

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Auto-erotic Disintegration

Skin unravels along Langer lines,
reveling in bloody revolution,
and there’s something appealing
about being undressed and consumed.

Like a fucking blood orange
I want to stick in your teeth
and stain your lips and fingers
my blue-black arterial truth.

Yes, I would gladly peel myself
down to the stoney pith,
spilling sick and swathes of red,
if you’d just let me.

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Bluejay

Black nitrile, a layer removed from sensing,
holding in perspiration—
lifting meat and organs draped
over the bones of your corpse.

I watched your lips withdraw slowly
over your teeth, over months radiation
sucked, soaked you up, folded your
needlepoint fingers back and back to breaking.

There was never any screaming,
just the low moan of languishing, helpless,
the application of a bolus dulled this until
the tarnish reached the sockets.

Pronounced, the remains you left
were charred and ground up
by stoics cloaked in winter coats
and clandestine black nitrile.


this poem is painful but i don’t hate it.


i haven’t put anything up in a while (well, except for doodles on ig.. that i’ve done a lot of in place of being able to afford therapy. capitalism works, folks!). just in a bit of a hole, and i’m not writing all that much. i’ll try to be better…

❤ mol

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Spin In, Spin Out

The curl of fallen maple leaves underfoot
blooms discarded cicada husks
brooding out over the tongue.
Alchemical oration spells an iridescent swarm
that disconnects, like umbilical, the meaning
from the pops and clicks that drew them.
By design they feed and are fed upon,
aimlessly executing their purpose
to balance the exchange.

It is easy to be still
when there is no mind fretting
where it measures against its own hour.
A simplistic sacrament to a complexity
it both embodies and is enveloped by.

Like the forest is the trees,
is the whole the sum of its individuals.
And the occlusion of the subatomic
creates an illusory separation—
taken on faith to stave off the inevitable collapse,
as there are always limits to the sustainability of form.

And, perhaps, life wasn’t spontaneous
as much as it was necessary
to stem the loneliness of eternal one-ness.
It’s probably for that the same reason
that we converse with our own empty spaces.

That gnawing absence is a terrifying reflection
existence was fabricated specifically to deny.
And as a result we fear death,
not for the finality of it, rather,
for the erasure of the individual.

It wakes us to our reality,
and the disquiet of being atemporally
alone with our self.

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An Exercise in the Hypothetical

Stuck in traffic—
observant and helpless.

The aging field cricket
wandered onto the blacktop.

The light cycled
and then
he exploded.

Rolled by an indifferent wheel.

I wonder:
Does god feels this guilty
watching us suffer?

Probably not.
Because helplessness and indifference
are divided by empathy.

Either way it’s a bit tragic
—and a bit absurd.

But I’m not a believer.

And I’m not playing at god, either,
for that matter.

So, I feel bad for the cricket.

…Fucker..

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nightmares

long legs
dried earth
compact
there are no lips
just bone
into milquetoast skin
age rumpled
deep stains evidence
it’s been chewing something
something that bleeds
relief or terror
that it has no
obvious sensory equipment
but so many legs
and there is doubt and hope
that whatever was swallowed up last
left it satisfied
either way
a rickety millepede pulsing
moves this way
but feet won’t carry
treadmill effort
the push does not yield
and it’s late
the realization
like diving the fuck in
and every strike is
cat paw declawed
like something light
and enjoyable
compared to the strength
of the worm body
the only think stronger
the muscles that drive
such dull teeth

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