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.

April Poem 21: NaPoWriMo

Walsh knows that strength too follows.
Smoke escapes one’s free words.
Rise up.

Stay high in him like a nourishing.
Dispose me to escape the rock.
The 5th are senses.
The others are within.

August Poem 27

A tiny ring,

Smoke escaped his mouth.

He sat down on that rock

Next of smoke.

 

He held his breath and pulled another

Bag out of the back pocket of his toga.

 

He coughed;

A huge cloud of smoke lit morning.