July Poem 23: The Chugging Machine

Were lit, it would curl out in a ripping

Unevenly achieved moksha forth from.

And even broadly the universe would

As the dog that stands in a hill of ants.

Sparks, smoke, scraggly brush. The chugging machine.

Jokes at work without getting fired for

Black and red ripped ends. Smoke it as if it

Were angry fire that ants unblinkingly

Allow. Homemade sausage native of weeds

Punctuated by work as numb plants that

Swarm up my leg stinging me around pine,

Oak, and sweetgum giving way to red fields.

But when sparks and ash spewed thump-thump-thump from,

Brahman was the sound sparks and ash don’t say.

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