Incipient Digestion
there are poems I have written
that will never stain the internet,
never breathe air or see sun.
they are..
too personal, too much
of you, or don’t belong in plain view;
they exist in the wasteland
space of shit I wish
I had the gall
to reveal.
As much as I give you
I hide, yet
I linger with a smile
and reveal what’s true,
not everyone likes
to participate in the active
shitscape of the present. (me too).
sometimes we need an escape,
hatch to blast
off in
a pretty picture
to clutch on to.
our minds
will hold us down
say “hear us out” and
sting like a herd of hornets
making you want to
resurrect walls and seal up
air tight; launching into
a vacuum as vast as space,
a flock of what-ifs in their
natural habitat, a fight for the land
between what has been
and what is,
the view from above
is no longer crisp
as we rise into orbit
and launch into a between
state.
Limbo.
Stuck in the atmosphere,
akin to a mouse’s carcass
in full view through
lumpy snake skin,
our demise is incipient
as gases bubble and implode;
seeking out peace
as if it’s free, when we know
it’s not, just some
simple thought the universe
forgot while washing
her hair in the shower.
A great creator, but
not a great maintainer,
forgot to look at
what she already had
going. We are stuck in
the queue,
or maybe not even
that far through–
forever holding on
for one more hour.
