A stick, a stone, a lost spelling bee
the militent – sorry, militant nature
of casual conversation. A gun, a knife
the wasteland between what your major
is and what’s next. Pollen, the way
everything sticks, and the way everybody
gets stoned. Electric cars, ghost tours in
convertible-hearses, an article titled
“How to be happy” locked behind
a paywall, walls of all sorts. Sentence-stems
beginning with how long until the earth
or if this continues. Slaughterhouses,
sex robots, schools going online,
SpaceX, the slow hiss the candlewick
makes when the candle burns out.
The Vitruvian Man, thrones, powers,
and magicians, hauling tires in daddy’s
backyard. He’s so daddy, the overall
lack of father figures, other figures,
the suicide rate of… all sorts of people.
People, sorting. Hordes, throngs,
the way three people might fit through
a door but we hardly allow one in.
I’ve got one on, a bass shooting across
the lake like a bullet fired from an
invisible rifle, its blood-red mouth,
the bloody and violent nature of all
things, of love chiefly, of spring always.
Andrew Oom
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