It was too harsh. Books banished, weeded, and
Smoke escaped one’s free words. Sad strands of smoke
Rose from the diffuse cherry. And the smoke sucked
Fields of weeds. A big bunch of these bad boys
Swept their own ink. They had smoked it like weed
Out the end of bad taste. The color of
Your teeth after you smoke twelve packs of Cools.
He was sure the weeds had needed a cut.
From early wood fire, and plants. Wet clay hills were
Suspended. The peels were hard to keep lit
When they held planes as fat as forest fires.
Gang violence replaced mineralized Mitch
For us. The bright color of fire ants tell
Dirty dotted chunks of information.
therichardbraxton 