Tuesday, March 05, 2019

The spotlight and the starlight
and the street light
tell me I am a
symbolic animal.

And my track mute,
and my butt hole,
and my drinking.

Encased peaks cut through
the firs on the hillside.
Painted lines escape
drifting off like spray
across the wounded airwaves.

Mosaic of paste clay walls
wig on a stick
near the burners.
Chopped up unfinished chair
in a crater of engine oil.

The surface shows me the shape
of what I breathe.
The slipping root
to bloody channels in the deep ground
framing mirror stacks
lid pouches and a silk wreck
parking weary thrusters
bright packed tar.

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