Our Assassin is Inside of Our Selves

I’m 16 feet deep in the swamp.
I’m breathing through gills.
There is a cat giving birth
on my doorstep.

There is a plane
with 127 passengers
flying overhead:
half of them sleeping,
half of them dreaming,
half yearning for
someone to want them.

The refrigerator hums.
The dryer rumbles.
Somebody knocks 4 times
on the neighbor’s door.

There’s nobody home.
I’m only 6 steps away,
but they don’t come.

There’s 13 possums under the porch.
Stars torch the purple horizon,
screaming to be left alone.
You and I riding bikes by the sea.
It’s glinting like an assassin’s sword
slashing across your chest.

Everything we dream of one day will be,
and then we’ll know the results of
our hunting and our farming,
our epic voyage home, and our
62 attempts to be somebody else.

359 poems of wordy rascalism…

27 stab wounds in the poet’s chest,
still he marvels at the snowfall
and the raven’s soundless flight.

Is stab wound 1 word or 2?

My shoes are a size too big
so I can feel my toes bend with
each step and it makes me wonder:
Did God know what he was doing
when he made 8 billion of us?

The wind is blowing from the North again.
The wolves are muzzling into their fur.
The drunks are pouring out of the bar again.
The moon is spinning through 8 shades of night.
The night is piercing my tongue again.

I’m walking barefoot in a snake pit…
Crossing mountain bridges in icicle shoes…
Hailing cabs in 6 feet of snow…

I’m an explorer exploring myself.
Counting down to infinity.



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