October Poem 25: The Specter of the Nue

Thin wisps of black smoke lay low in the fields.

They disperse almost as quickly as they

Formed. Their haze in the tall grass that has gone

To seed. The smoke gathers thickest in the

Brown grasses that eventually die back

To black spots of earth bare like life in the

Old house with the odd shingles hanging loose

From long years of wind. She couldn’t help him

Or leave him now. But she can watch from her

Perch in the branches of the unkempt wood

Abutting the old property. She could

Float through the weeds and up out of the ground.

She could watch and choke him with her fumes. Cursed

To make him suffer for the love she holds.

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August Poem 43: Blowing Smoke

Take a deep breath. Deeper. Take their smoke in

Your lungs. Become them. Become carriers

Who could be rendered with sparks and smoke long

As scraggly brush blown off the burn pile.  Long

Of the yellowed cotton filters. Burned out.

And the butts everywhere. Burned out. Scattered

With these used up people. Dotted. Frayed by

Their time in the dryer. Hand around the

Black lake. Willing all find their way carried

Brains like piles of clean clothes. Thoughtless heaps.

They smell of diffuse cigarette smoke. Like

Mental peanut butter. In line for the

Illness. Blacks your fingertips with each touch.

With the paper gone. Dissolved. Washed away.

August Poem 36: Ragnarok

Catastrophes. Revealing stripes of the

Manufactured Gods. Hidden like slender

Cigarettes held to their lips. The old Gods

Growing in a field as leaves. Let their smoke

Linger in their veins. Wrapping. Smothering.

And hiding between religions. Hiding.

The snakes and spiders and rats and rocks and

Pits. They balance the feeble human mind.

But it doesn’t make sense to remember

Where Gods have not been poisoned. Where you saw

Them last. Stalking you. But you don’t want to

Chance their bite. The Gods had been exceptions.

Wrong. Tied. But that didn’t stop them. Or you’d

See them now in the grass. Decomposing.

August Poem 33: Words in White

It was bound to happen. And one night it

Did. The scratch, click, and thump of the hammers

Pulling nails. The excess holes. The drywall

Was pocked with them. However, this was an

Entertainment. The same cigarette. This

Anecdote. This pulling across and out

The utility knife to serpentine

Over the guide line. Know its purpose. Like

The poison smoke. We lift and snap hoping

For the line we had scored out without my

Other buddy. We had stopped. Wasn’t it

Word burn? And I push away my readers.

Even if I felt meaningless words out

A black and red end squeezed. Roll them in white.

August Poem 10: Rise and Fade

They of the long death.

Those bringing the death carpet.

The sulfur people.

 

They are the strange ones.

Ash and bone and polished shards

Woven in fabric.

 

They wear their beliefs

Like the gathers of their lands

Taken from the earth.

 

Chanting they swing. Their

Noxious censors billowing.

Staining the skies black.

 

Stagnant as Latin,

Sattva Casetti was dead.

Eighty-four and smoke.

 

The chugging machine

Of subtextually.

Her birthday or near.

 

We experienced

Fulfilling of prophecy

Ending the Red Death.

 

Covering bodies

In ash and fragrant spices

That burn and consume.

 

Smokes that rise and fade

Lifting the spirit, the dead

Giving safe passage.

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.

July Poem 22: Dirty Dotted Chunks of Information

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.