In our first year,
we, the little ones,
formed a circle trial atop the asphalt
We started to talk.
The decision was all but one unanimous–
They pointed and clicked,
“You, the poor one, are the witch?”
For the next twenty-five years,
I went, “Really?”
In the life lift,
no reaper can rosy;
how soon it must be time.
The ivory limbs twitch
with the threat of neurotics
on that carcass of rotting sticks
that one might venture to call a bed.
True, you are a royal mess.
Not operating, you are glued
to that stubborn mattress
at your best.
Don’t worry Lu.
I’ll undo whatever he’s done to you.
Infinite knives knifing near that spine for a time.
I wish I knew how to make that pain, mine.
Blood garnishes your Fridays,
makes a mockery of your free days.
It’s only natural to feel the way you do.
I wish that I could have the power to comfort you.
Don’t worry Lu.
I’ll undo whatever he’s said to you.
Slam down Welsh raven
pecking the tile
digging for coal.
Tissue beauties, tall and obsidian,
sliding down a palatial moraine.
A rush towards the bottom:
tissue covering up
that heavy-duty morass again.
They cry, a siren’s screed.
A tanker picks up their oil and speed.
The singer sorts, divides the we:
into the diamond and the dross,
while approaching cigarette cost
in silver cases,
smokes through the sticks: his mother’s milk,
minutes: his eternal loss.
The cauliflower brain
be erected at the ends
of its cruciferous roads:
a halfway house for its treasures,
a place of transfer
from organic, fractal wrinkles
to stone triangles on earth.
Cathedrals of the mind:
I’m past my breaking point
and I forgot to break.
I still, most definitely, can.