this is to my property,
to my poetry
that sinks beneath the cave of obsolete synonyms
a blob of blur pain,
a vasectomy to the skin of dreams.
There are things still left to comprehend for me,
like the voices of women,
in the kitchen
in the lawns of hilly areas,
a tree that speaks of death is already a dream.
i pace it, sniffing
in a thick gray- death soup
A space for a thing I am given
i have memories growing like a weed on my knuckles,
a stale one.
a desiccated one.
but memories can make you think like a hurricane,
a dead star already?
a hospital that collects the voices of pain
in a bowl of mercury dipped cry
and the men,
looking upon the rim of thin cloud
a transparent powder of dream
there is absolutely nothing there.
a sound that makes you believe in God is actually time!
priceless and quiet
they melt and sag,
they are told
Do not Touch..
It’s a smell of Death.
Rub and sniff it.