17 minutes

sunny-side up
ptsd staring contest
shit-raking over coals

the sight
of the lobotomy icepick
hood ornament
freight weight backed
domino follow-through

chilled pin prick fuck you(s)
served over sweet tea
cold to counteract
encroaching global seasoning
ostrich reasoning dug in

head-spin break-back
cannonball-chest wind resistance
tributaries in disuse
vascular toad croaking
bubble neck
and head explodes

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calcaneus clatters on hardwood
moonless fog creeps in
through the garden door
reeking of haunted earth
the ivy tightens imperceptibly
around the facade
wooden handle
choke up
old steel
imperfection pitted
waxen flesh sings
high pitched
and hushed
wipe away the peels
and the ruddy pooling
company will be coming soon

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falling action

dead black bird
laying electrocuted
in the gutter
prismatic swaths eddy
around tossed feathers
paying respects
along sea-wise pilgrimage

a 50-year heartbreak culminating
fires distress flares
into unconcerned traffic
cruel magic in the lack of impact
insects simply alter their path
or devour the mangled animal

larval writhing
endless cycling
causality steamrolls
in spite

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the wrong kind of phosphorous

as a pond in a hailstorm
there is only tumult

sussing the cause

in presence of the topic

made ragged retribution

believing bloodletting
might relieve

running along ley lines

that contact
could ease

a book
a balm

the shelter
of song

like there’s some combination of syllables
or pixels or fucking photons

that would wash new
this gangrenous condition

the unreconcilable contrast
of internal and external

at some point
the hailstorm moves on

the pond stills
and clarifies

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i wanted to create something beautiful
but the colors aren’t singing to me today
instead i shall fold myself inward
and collapse over the scrawl of monochrome
always inserting itself so vehemently
into the background noise of my life
and that word
is growing more hackneyed
and grotesque with every use
like wither
like worm
like blood and glass
heart and scream
and the myriad of variations
that they can swing
like me
as nothing
no thing
no eye
i can see only what lies before me
in the immediacy
and it’s all vindictively fictitious
a joke
the struggle to get beyond
what can be touched

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briny eyes rotate in sockets
as the tide leaves stranded
the dinghy upon jagged rock pools
as good a place as any to disembark
an anemone recoils
from the brush of a boot-toe
as the way is picked pensively
over rough cut volcanic teeth
a crab settles in to a groove
to watch the traveler recalibrate
to the shift of land masses
yellow grass and dark earth
briny eyes rotate in sockets
they have never seen
anything so lovely

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when thoughts only cost a penny

i found a dollar yesterday
and bought a moment to think

and i realize now
that we’ve been on the verge
since we began our deconstruction
of atomic anatomy
that i am a product
of the age of the push-button apocalypse

there are so many of us children of the bomb
that we comprise a fearful majority
and soon enough there will be none
but small pockets of sheltered peoples
removed completely from the global affair
who remember a pre-nuclear
pre-industrialized world

and they aren’t immune to the march either
they’re just final hold-outs
isolation and nothing worth mining
make it easier to remain invisible
to the unblinking red eye
of the government surveyor

until some native plant becomes the next
ass-fat snake-oil miracle cure elixir
for ‘first world’ problems
then they’ll be made wise
to what the rest of us fallout kids already know
that we’re fucked

and the moment spent
i then went back to work

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