2 Poems

RYAN TWAT SUCKER

We snarl our own immensity.

Things pass away into wolves who only function.

We go through old age then death again.

This in truth be dat.

And though resting luxuriously in the park, he feels sad

About his unwisdom, feels bad about spilling oxygen.

Two hills forward, a plastic water bottle is sharpened

By the falcon's shadow.

Two hills upward, she laughs when its feathers

Fall upon her string bikini bottom.

There's light never born, outside all, deeply quiet

Like the breath of a helicopter's wing.

Two hills becoming, she enriches his posture

And animalistic zing.

Hope is beyond sorrow, hope is beyond what's free.

Go ahead and die for me.

I WORK, I FUCK

Lucky to be so dumb.

Lucky for poetry, lucky for rugs.

And there is neither day or night, nor what is or

What is not.

Caves under swallowed seas 

Host the hidden parting of all things.

Lucky to be so sound. 

Lucky for perfume, lucky for mounds.

And there is neither stream or desert, nor what was or

What was not.

Wandering calves realize their duty

While dancing upon conveyor belts of beef.

Cardinals bury rocks with spaces and splendor.

The glory of gruel flaps toward its far-away journey

Beyond darkness.

A beast in the basement, eating

Its lost gravy.

A refuge from life where life's no option, unconscious

As a razor beginning to bend.