Monday, February 1, 2010

2 poems


Plan lives within microbes
Not certain why I begin.
To reserve the best numbers possible,
My imagination plays coffin-maker
And composes fast a population
Watching the storm while the storm loses interest.

Life is falling into the sea in flames.
But the just born went an opposite direction
To guarantee they'd be modeling a type of
Ready-to-eat meat before seer-season ends.
By flying glass, I write swallowed groundwater.
Microbes have no memory of that.


I find myself stunned by news sitting in cars.
Every engine's running, daring some daylight
Of demons melting backwards.
I am afraid of shaking all over.
I ask who said nothing and save myself.
The street is oily furniture made from plant beds.
My stomach's lost its legs, the smell
Has no head.

I find my skin and a few wings for the baldness.
It's been a hard decision trying to survive.
The poor people have Internet
Made of water the size of boulders.
It's in a dark well in my neighbor
That my wife and I are provided shelter.
With bags of rice we wash the snowball fight
God continuously shakes.

1 comment:

Nobius said...

I'm blown away again. Nice work here.