I am not obsessed with human things.
Like sex and food and memory.
Born empty, with a hole.
It flows through me
and cannot change the ending.
This long sought after day.
Bleeds for whores and concubines.
I wrap my feet in thistle.
I bend the way I should.
I have not been paid.
My eyes will not focus, on you.
I am underneath here, pulling
death from the hole.
Like a dog that hunts for no reason.
Just a pet. There is no wild left,
in the morning or past the night.
Just a blur, you soft little wreck.
Just a number in the pile,
rotting. Pretending to see,
you, pretending to see.
And I feel, the human feeling
of betrayal. Just for being born.
Just for being me, with no pursuit,
but to vanish.
Unaccounted for. Still a bright virgin.
Dark in the aisle of mind, only.
You little piece of meat.
We have left and gone,
perhaps too far from our people.
Disembodied, animal chunks.
Growling and groaning. Secretly.
For a new owner.
And I do see flowers, outside
my window. And I do not imagine,
the light that bore them. In my yard.
They will die, bending over.
Like they should.
A useless weakened beauty, God held.
By a stem, God tried. I picked up the message.
And I shook in the wind all that passed.
Carry me home, to the no place.
Without knives or guns or wilting.
Inside, little empty human.
How will you fill this day without me?
(There is a cloud about to explode. Quietly this cloud seethes over my house. I am inside,
looking out like a vacuum.)