My Resume And Resignation

I am qualified to lie
I can secure the account
I can punch a clock
I can torque a wrench
Turn a cheek, twist a screw
Shuck some corn
and fly a kite

I can stack mounds of paper
And squirm in an office
I can shove bricks in a wall
Or another nail in my coffin
I can lift with my legs
Or use my degree
Break my back
And serve you tea

I can shoot a gun
I can shoot for the stars
I can shoot myself in the foot
And get a paycheck for fucking
things up and my boss’s spouse

I can wear camouflage
I can hide in a jungle
I can follow orders
I can pray to God
When I’m down
in the shit

I can drive a taxi
I can drive you crazy
I can drive a hearse
Or chauffeur a Bentley
I can be super drowsy
And operate a forklift
I can be the old timer
working graveyard shifts

I can integrate and differentiate
I can balance an equation
I can do it for science
Or out on vacation
I can cook and clean
I can mop the floor
I can pick broken bottles
out of bathroom urinals

I can walk the picket line
I can walk 9,000 miles
I can walk him right
out of my mind
I can walk out on stage
I can run from myself
I can run away scared
Then return to your house

I can kill some time
I can murder hope
I can heal my cuts
Then watch them scar
I can hike up backwoods trails
I can climb up mountains
I can climb up 30 ft ladders
I can fall for any boy or girl

I can sell beer at rodeos
I can sell records in Japan
I could sell an ipod to a native
If I hadn’t already sold out
I can sleep through life
I can sleep with one eye open
I can sleep outside
for six months straight

I can survey spotted owls
I can change out towels
I can run a fixed bed reactor
I can speak all day to customers
Or talk dirty as a phone sex actor

I can always get a job
But my preference is to split
Leave my boss a final note
Give two weeks and quit

Words By: Cara Feral
Image by: Steve Cutts

The Insane

I saw Jesus singing today
His salvation shivering
In the cold and the chill
His tent propped across
A shiny shopping cart
I feel his hypnotizing eyes
Dance like a charmed cobra
Daring me to look his way

He was sitting in full lotus
Playing a Tibetan brass bowl
Soaking wet in the chanting rain
Reminding me of the Buddha
It’s a circus sideshow everyday
As I ride by hazy Scobert Park
The drug addled and starving
Mixing with the mentally ill

Man can live just fine here
On bread, grass, and needles
Somedays overzealous cops
Harass him and his followers
You don’t have to go home
But you can’t stay here
The pigs say with a laugh
Knowing that here is his place

It’s a crime not having a roof
Yet the ones that take them
Go unpunished and praised
Some days he smiles at me
As I bike past riding to my job
He reminds me of Diogenes
The Alexander the Great in me
Knows I’d be him if I wasn’t me

“At least they know their crazy”
I think to myself as I go to work,
With the rest of the insane

Words and Photo by Cara Feral

Paper Tigers

I keep my paper tigers close to me
Anxiously pacing, illusory and untamed
Like the last remaining satyr in the world
Crumpled wads that are all bark and no maws
Gilded divertissements that tiptoe around
My real demons and the elephant in my room
Like my fear of getting chained to comfortable
When all I dream about is running as fast as I can

I’ve starved with ecstasy like a cracked beast
I’ve drunk from the chalice of Pan and Dionysus
I’ve thumbed the burnt scar of Her ripped umbilical cord
I’ve built temples in her euphony and clung to crow caw
I yearn for her embrace of juniper and pussypaws
I’ve felt a visceral connection to the call of the wild
This earth, this ocean, this air, this tragic silence
This body. This benevolence. This only wonder

I wish I could be like the others, muzzled
Domesticated, milksop no memory of free
Everyone is so sick but not with the virus
I see a pandemic of Stockholm Syndrome
Folks falling in love with their mobile cells
And elegant decorum of their zoo eyed, glass walls
Problem is that I have kissed the lips of the sky
I’ve feasted on her marrow and milk, I am her blue

Like when we were cubs nuzzled in pounce and purr
When by tooth and claw only the strong survived
Instead of calling an Uber for Taco Bell drive thru
My claws stained regret from suicide by paper cuts
And from folding my demons into origami butterflies
Praying one of them zags free past the catcher’s net
And takes a hold of the frayed ends sailing into the sun
Unraveling the scarecrow of man and burning it down

Words By Cara Feral
Image: From Istock by Getty Images

Runaway Trains

There’s this divide
Thirty seconds wide
Trillions of commercials long
Most everyone I have ever met
Want to save the planet
While filling up with gas
Or vote to save the environment
But refuse to leave their cars

Boy! Howdy! Hooray!
Americans and their cars!
Pickups with smoke stacks
Louvres, tinted glass
Chrome molly, mud flaps
Glasspacks, four barrels
Let’s open them up
Sideboards, tailgates
Hummers in Hummers
Driving under the influence
Of petroleum and work
Guttled. Oiled. Greased
Like the skid marks
Of the American dream
Texas longhorns martyred
On hoods of Lincolns and Caddys
Bentleys, Benz & Beamers,
Endangered animals
Like Jaguars, Cougars
Pumas and wild Mustangs
Their symbolic effigies
Now hood ornaments
Memorialized trophies
Crowing bumper stickers
Of precious places drilled
Like high fives after rapimg
Mother nature face down
The exploited names
Emblazoned across grills
Of Tundras, and Yukons
Safaris, Range Roving, Denalis
Pacifica and the Outback
Pathfinding Expeditions
While masturbating
To Car and Driver

Or maybe you prefer brains
And batteries over brawn?
Like Teslas and Nikolas
Smart brown cars
Future Faraday’s
Volts and Priuses
Their cobalt bricks
Carried on the backs
Of Congolese children
For 2 dollars a day
The smart money
Is on lithium mining
Just ask the dead yaks
And cow carcasses
Floating down rivers
From contaminated
Drinking water
Be sure to plug them in
Every night to charge
With dirty energy
From dirty coal
And natural gas

Frack like you
Just don’t care
And drill baby drill
Like you’ve never done before
America has gone green
Like the color of money
From sea to benzene ring sea
America the disposable
We demand twice the torque
Acceleration, towing power
A quarter of the gas mileage
A fraction of the stopping power
Of these unstoppable,
Habitat choking
Self destructing,
Planet suicide,
Co2 gas emitting,
Runaway trains

Something Precious

He comes to me feral with shadowy starving whispers
Tiptoeing across bare legged flits of murmured rendezvous
Skulking lightly upon creaking planks of wincing willow trees
And dead bark festooned upon lodgepole pine and guts of yew

Our age old dance of entangled limbs and Luna’s cast caught
Aposematic called bluff, flushed spades take two queens lost
Aureate autumnal bounty gathered upon antlered crown
Tickled tummies of amaranthine burst lupine fade into frost

I take refuge in curled chestnut tails of foxes and aspen copses
Tumbling down clumsy fawning first stanced awkward dances
My fear for him grows asymptotically almost fully but not quite
Maybe we were lovers, perhaps in another life and circumstance

Winter coats brandish bled fur and first snow blown freeze
I feel the moon mourn me inside its nautilus trellised hunch
Paint your music across my spiraling double stranded sequence
Let’s drink our Rubicon, hold our noses, howl and spit this plunge

Eventually the sum of infinity catches up to my panting Achilles
The wolf closes, encircles, halving Zeno’s paradox striking distance
Something precious like a final breath betwixt time’s pendent jaws
My single bleated prayer offered up as a lamb just before his pounce

Words By: Cara Feral
Art: Shanna Trumbly

Turn Out The Lights

Somewhere the party never stopped
Somewhere the 7th floor of the Sheraton
in Madison, Wisconsin is still shaking its head
Gathering its tables and chairs up from outside

Somewhere there are still packed music venues
With sweaty teenagers hanging on every note
By just word of mouth and zero promotion
Somewhere the ice cream man ain’t talkin bout love

Somewhere David Lee Roth might as well jump
Somewhere Eddie is still blowing smoke rings
Somewhere they’re running a little too hot tonight
Somewhere the world’s a stage and not a ghost town

Somewhere Michael Anthony is swigging Jack Daniels
Onstage playing drunken bass solos and peacemaker
Somewhere there’s finger taps and sexy pick harmonics
Unmatched by any rock ‘n roll guitarist before or since

Like a dog running around chasing squirrels and birds
A howling mad flailing beast. Before the shotgun blast
Unvirtual. Visceral. Intimate. Raw. And untranced
Before the masks. Zombies. And social distancing

Back when the lightswitch was on and burning bright
Back when the rock’n roll lifestyle was still erupting
Back when sobriety and brown M & M’s were taboo
Instead of smiles

Back when we reveled in being human
Unafraid to get close and dance the night away
Somewhere Eddie is still rocking the fuck out
Running with the devil, on fire, and unchained

Places That I Have Never Been

I’ve never been to Disneyland
But I know what it’s like to be disappointed
Mickey is just some dude

I’ve never been to Wall Street
But I know what it’s like to be cheated
And watch my savings fleeced

I have never been to the Congo
But I know what it’s like to break my back
For dictators for 2 bucks a day

I’ve never been to Central Park
But I know what it’s like to be mugged
at gunpoint in the dark

I’ve never been to a slaughterhouse
But I know what it’s like to watch animals suffer
and the light in their eyes dim

I’ve never been to the Athabasca oil sands
But I know what it’s like to be raped
decimated and laid bare

I’ve never been to the Statue Of Liberty
But I know what it’s like to hope
Within the bonds of wage slavery

I’ve never been to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch
But I know what it’s like to be cast out
and thrown away

I’ve never been to the Vatican
But I know what it like to have blood on my hands
That never washes out

I’ve never been to Hollywood
But I know what it’s like to be a whore
Just to pay rent

I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon
But I know what it’s like to feel insignificant
and so very small

I’ve have never been to the zoo
but I know what it’s like to be kept
dissected and pointed at

I’ve never been to Death Valley
But I know what it’s like to be depressed
And to be as low as one can go

I’ve never been to prison
But I know what it’s like to be taken
kicking and screaming

I have never seen the bearded lady
But I know what it’s like to be ridiculed
for being transgender

I have never been on top of the world
But at least I know what it’s like to be loved
Sleeping next to you

Words by: Cara Feral
Photo: Open Pit Mines, Alberta, Canada, 2014

Poets Anonymous

Hi, my name is Cara and I am a poemaholic
It’s only been 24 hours since my last sonnet
And it’s been 13 days since the last time I’ve
used the words coruscant and tattered in a line

The reason I am here is because it’s ruining my life
Even if I am not writing I am obsessed and dreaming
about my next theme. I read dictionaries in my free time
I have rhymezone and bookmarked
I subscribe to not one or two but three words of the day

I think of all the wonderful haikus and villanelles
That I am missing out on if I am not writing poetry
It’s even started affecting my love life and my job
Dirty dishes have piled up my cat is starving and thin
At work I am super paranoid that my boss can smell
my duplicitous words on my breath or she’ll see the ink
splotches on my fingertips from writing all night

Like an octopus I have perfected the art of blending in
But lately my addiction has become harder to hide
I know it’s bad when I start making metaphors
that don’t make sense like the time I screamed fire
in an empty theater or the cold, outside pouring rain

I’ve even taken to whiskey to slow down my desirous burn
I’m desperate. At my weakest I started asking around about meth
I have never tried it but I’m sure it’ll help me–to write even more
See there I go again! It’s not like I am even good at being a poet
I don’t smoke,I don’t wear a fedora, I don’t write about my sphincter
and I’m in a stable relationship. Where’s the poetry in any of that?

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by moderation
That does not make a compelling opening first stanza of a poem
Anything to distract me. I even tried getting back on facebook
I figured I could fake getting into all the derpy gifs and vapid memes
And adopting them into something that really expresses how I feel
I resorted to watching an NBA basketball game sober with no live crowds
Sadly it only reminded me of my poetry that no one ever reads

I have taken the first step and still have 11 more to go but I can do this
I will start by making amends to everyone that I have hurt with my poems
I am ready to make a real change and start weaving my invisible chrysalis
Emerging as a carpenter, theoretical physicist or please God, anything else

A Collector of Highs

I’m a collector of highs
Like a note taking tick
Clung to the necks of crows
I am murders of knowledge
That comes only by scavenging
Through trash and old cigarettes
To find a shiny thing worth holding
I am the art of the cuttlefish

I sail on the hope of wilderness
And the power of sheer will
The adrenaline of jumping off
The grid for six months at a time
I am the warmth and the purr
Of my lover and splayed cat
I am the irony of bad movies
And improvisational acting roles

One of my favorites is the rush
Of playing music to a packed room
I am the dance of easy whiskey
Pure straightedge to the core
I am sometimes starvation
But mostly just way too much
I’m the ecstasy of the haloed dawn
And the warm blankie of junkies

I’ve always been a pair of dice
And a numerically solved equation
I’ll hedge on every one of my bets
I am wet dreams of psychologists
And the entertainment of zombies
I am Durer’s wan praying hands
And Rotten’s erect middle finger
Of winter and a pointing clock

I hide all my experiences
In glass cases under my skin
Crucified distilled butterflies
And their transformations
Like on my first acid trip
And the epic chrysopoeia
Of my golden calf into kill
A gift offered by wolves

Lying at your door

Words by: Cara Feral

Artwork: by MarnieWalks
Words: by Cara Feral

Some Kind Of Blue

He liked it straight, no chaser please
In ’59, shit was bad but not like today
Bleached, broken and blanched reefs
Lagan jilted mermaids’ love for sale
Single use straws stabbed floating
Athwart in bleeding nostrils of turtles
Like fading trumpet diminuendos
Choked by islands of buoyant trash

A bitches brew of trilling jetsam
Strangulated, dappled, and bruised
Like the distended neck of Shiva
After drinking our ocean’s poison
Or the attenuated whispering sustain
Of a Mile’s trumpet phrased thisness
Accompanied to solos of dead species
Blown lipped and extinct in a silent way

If I were a bell I’d toll for gone gone gone oceans
That weep spilled oil from breached steel sterns
Like his blood gushing out in front of Bird Land
The Prince of Darkness in a mist of liquid rouge
Beaten by cops and the madness for being black
The moon dreams tragic ballads of yesteryears
lamenting the sound from Morpheus’s conch
When the lights are low even seas fade away

Bye bye blackbirds’ tummies of Coke caps
Oil covered pelicans snatch pill bottles
Amidst rancid floating piles of garbage
Bellies of whales stuffed full of plastic
Listen to the trammeled song of crabbers
Ladybirds cull through their murky wake
Their brass squawks mourn by the fantails
Blue in green haze turns sea sickened jade

Electric red tides swell then hip-skit
Like the way Bill Evan’s fingers moved
Six pack wrapped and bound rostrums
Parbuckled across green dolphin straits
Rotting on lazarets from trawlers’ drift nets
The devil may care for sharks caught
Tangled up, breathless and sapphirine
Split open and bleeding some kind of blue

For earthweal Shark Poetry weekly challenge

My Slaughter

My love is an abattoir

And if my heart was glass

Nobody would ever come in

If you are brave enough to look

You’d see the carnage of my intention

Splattered across bedroom floors

Of men and women whom I loved

But have forgotten their names

You’d see my ceilings pregnant

With the intestines of lambs

Their bleeding guts unrewarded

Like the ending of B grade horror movie

Nowadays only the ones

Who have seen it all before

Or have enough of a stomach

For blood and gore are allowed in

Or the ones desperate enough

That they blind their eyes

And can ignore the wailing

Of the innocent and tortured

Echoing down my corridors

Yet some choose to cattle onward

Armed with the knowledge

That the alternative of alone

Can be even worse

Nothing Else

I am this moment
Doesn’t matter how I got here
Doesn’t matter what’s next
I am now
And nothing


My inside pulled out heart
Is a 300 gram autobiography
A tattered and bleeding diary
Of systolic wars and valved peace
Fluttering jay sung arrhythmia
Beating in sentences of lost hope
Like the cadence of a rainstorm

It’s a fang bared ouroboros
Swallowing its perpetual end
While shitting every beginning
I wish I was jaunty and unladen
Like a random drifting feather
Gambolling across Atlas’s cheek
As he shudders under the weight

The Escape Artist

Landlords and managers
In charge of weighing the worth
Of those without mass
Little napoleons with nowhere left to conquer
Buy land. Property. Domain. Old buildings
Vacant lots, pissing contests, council meetings
Judges, vacations, coke and hookers
Some men self appoint themselves king
They’re mostly found in places that ticks like
Sweaty cracks and crotches
Embedded in the most vulnerable
Their ugsome, cacky company
Make even whores feel dirty
Doesn’t matter who is steering the titanic
When the whole ocean is for sale

The Hindenburg is perpetually going down
Its blowhole hissing burning hydrogen
Like a beached blue whale in the velvet sky
The defeated flight crew’s talk at work
Sound like sailors without hope
At least it’s Friday and it’s only Monday
Parasitic bosses living off their hosts
And landlords squeezing out the blood
From slave waging calloused turnips

Fawn eyed creatures
Like me have no chance
My ocean targeted. Dredged
Every sea dollar spent
My hiding spots albescent
Snowing and pregnant with plastic
I hide out during the workday
Sitting on my gender neutral throne
My island at my job. I write poems
While pretending to excrete
Thinking up these words

Every once in a time they get lucky
And catch me in their nets
Of overdue bills or raised rents
Men like them hate girls like me
Any excuse for them to add
A couple inches to their dicks
I am their hunted prey
You believe me right?
My words are barnacles
Clinging to the hulls
Of sunken ships
Shapeshifting in their wakes
A tangle of tentacles
Unpretzled into a shadow
Crawling through a keyhole

I am passing clouds
That will keep typing
Until you relax
Then squeeze underneath
Your locked, cracked cages
And open fish tanks
A soul of disguises
As I take my time
And slowly ink
Write on

The Voice of Alexia

Shut up.

Buy beyond your means
But be dissatisfied
Watch MK Ultra Marathon episodes
Of “Look Away” series 1 through infinity
Now on Hulu

Keep going to work
Don’t call for a general strike
Keep buying useless shit
Don’t lynch the landlord
Do set up autopay
Take your bills as prescribed
Watch the news that caters to you
Pluck the feathers off your wings
Set them aflame at your anima’s grave
Watch them smolder next to joysticks
Plant your head into things
Not worthy of your time
Be too tired to draw or write
After coming home from work
Sit silent and don’t speak up
Let Alexis do that for you

They say the gauge of railroad tracks
Is the same width of Roman chariots
When i hear the trains go by every night
Trumpeting their 7 million dollar suicidal horns
I hear the clickity clack over Chinese immigrants
Backs and listen to the Christian and the lion
Still negotiating some kind of deal

At nights I can hear the shunting
Of railcars emptied and switched
Off ballasts of steel trellised ribcages
Plucked like a harp garbled and bare
I think of my brakeman ex girlfriend
Tougher than Wyoming or any man
Somewhere I can still hear her breath
Whickering and galloping with iron hooves
Like the buzz of cicada and the prelude to a storm

Back when I was a boy I anthropomorphized
Everything from rocks to trees to hiding places
My imagination felt a lot bigger than it is now
There was an eternal optimism not yet jaded
That I’d live inside Sir Bacon’s Salomon’s House
I fantasized being the saboteur’s thrown stone
Instead of the machine of a machine

Empty Cage

For every balloon
there is a heart
For every star
there is the dark
For every boss
there is a hustle
For every death
there is an ocean
For every storm
there is a hope

For every preacher
there is a whore
For every cop
there is a day
For every cloud
there is a slave
For every election
there are thieves
For every woman
there is a songbird

For every broken heart
there is an empty cage

The Philosopher’s Stone

He was born in a small town
A cave to be exact
Birthed in scrawled hieroglyphics
plastered upon the walls
the exordium of the diagram
and the value of the how-to

He discovered fire
Then created the match
Learned to trap
With hands of snares
and how to kill
fashioning wood
into a club

Centuries later
he found science
Hired as a compass
Navigating maps
Called out as heresy
once he figured out
that the sun
didnt revolve around

He eventually
Attended college
Studied biology
Minored in math
Got straight A’s in physics
Graduated cum laude
Took his first real job
As an atomic bomb
He was eventually let go

Moved out to California
For a career in big tech
Re-imagined in cauldrons of blueprints
Java, C++ and scientific decree
Carried atop the backs of 5g
and the disappearing tunes
of the songbirds and bees
Forcing every head to bow
And silencing every tongue
through censored text
Thus his Magnum Opus
Ab ovo of fire
to the lordship
of man

His newly upgraded quantum computing algorithm will surely turn heads:

Just look at his latest invention:
A mega ultra Goldberg device consisting of whorls turning cogs winding gears pulling chains attached to a trapdoor of marbles spiraling down inclined planes that strike a rack that unlatches a pinion that drives a wheel into a couple whatchamacallits that twist a lever springing the release of a suspended mass that pressures sprockets into turning a hammer upside down striking the thingamabob at its fulcrum which drops the ball triggering the rotating plastic Christmas lawn ornament into a rolling sphere whilst simultaneously setting off a series of events that cause hydraulic rotating doohickies to expel compressed gas converting chemical reactions from solar electromagnetic coils cooled to absolute zero which transfers kinetic energy to a wound up pulley that repels a magnet into dropping a domino which fixes companies into exchanging the enthalpy from fossil fuels into fusing atoms which pulls some weight into lubricating the funding to launch nuclearized nano drones that will implement several gizmos that’ll trigger an assembly chain of yet to be invented robotic doodads that’ll design, synthesize and implant a remotely controlled Google chip straight into the human brain…

Ta Dah!

Come marvel and behold
At the chrysopoeia
From the abacus to gold
And the transformation
of the wrench
into the crown


Shimmers of the morning sky illuminate a haloed dahlia of alabasterine dusted, fresh pounce. A dappled blanket of spiralling inches whickers like the sound of tiny hooves floating down atop half a horse’s leg or more. Air crystalline, frozen breath of ghouls. Visible in speech, open mouthed, flared. Impossible to move without plowing through. Drifts of frozen water chanced to exist, hindrance blocked driveway on this windy, slippery day

My father, retired and toiled. Rubbed some coins together and poof an acre and a house. This was his moving day. Besmirched and ironic, like a blizzard on your funeral day. Yeah, a little too ironic. Like when the ambulance gets stuck taking you to the hospital. Queued like a Greek tragedy. Cardiac arrested for working too hard and shoveling too fast. Then collapse

My mother and me sitting in the waiting room ears cupped, listening for the beat of a 2nd shoe. The walls. Institution grey. Cold. Crackling luminescence. A TV set neighs in the corner whinnying on about some cloying daytime soap. Maybe a plot as dramatic as what was happening to me. Suddenly the doctor brought us into his office. Mrs….

I regret to tell you your husband is asystole

A million assassin bees wielding switchblades blood thirsty and drunk launched from my crushed, heaving hived heart. I wanted to strangle him with his blanched lab coat and pomp. Feed his stethoscope to him through his broken, blank expressionless face

Finally, the Dr’s lips hissed,
Your husband was DOA.
Our attempts to revive,

He brought us into an airless room. A carceral and familiar smothering galloped into my lungs, hung, drawn and quartered. Spilling and splattering invisible blood from dad’s and mom’s and sons and daughters and aunts from before. The undertaker and doctor perched like vultures at this my father’s dakhma. My dad was dressed in a white hospital gown with blue stripes. Supine on a sterile stainless steel stand. Stiff. Chin up. Eyes closed. A waft of antiseptic. I touched his cheek. Waiting for a reply

I touched his other cheek.
Tears pouring down mine
Eventually I kiss him
For the first time

A Galaxy Apart

There is this entire galaxy in me
Hidden, vast, nebulus, and expanding
Somedays I feel like I am going to burst
And puke my stars out onto the sidewalk
Then everyone will see what dark matter
And pulsars look like viscid and drowning
In a litre of orange juice, oatmeal and flax

There’s a chapter of romance in my space
Like a bridge of magpies across the Milky Way
That gather into a winged chariot on rare occasion
To come get Vega and her loom and meet Altair
A guy her parents sent to the bad side of the tracks
The one time a year they can touch and embrace
And cool their anger like your rage between my lips

There’s also mechanisms of struggle and survival
Storms the sizes of countries and oceans of fire
Comets with their fiery tails come and gone
Leaving behind icy cold stares, blank texts
Flamed out trajectories of misbegotten youth
The sinking suction of black holed depression
And examples of parasitism like the planet earth

Sometimes I wonder if others have this perspective
Stark contrasts between lightness and darkness
Unsolvable paradoxes buried in Pandora’s box
Like my masculine and feminine Gemini sides
Pulled into downward spirals by invisible hands
Or launched into spinning orbits like the USS Enterprise
Epically orchestrated clockwork or just dumb luck?

There is this entire galaxy in you
Shrouded, clouded and impossible to see
Even through the Hubble you’re my mystery
Let’s test the outer limits of rationale and logic
Clasp our hands around the darkside of this moon
Choke out a one way ticket to the end of our worlds
Celebrate doomsday ringside as our galaxies collide

Photo: Gemini constellation as seen through the Hubble

Summer Air

Clinquant melodies of scattering leaves and seed

Soughing plaintively between sunburned hollows

Like perfumed tiny tourists from a passing charabanc

Their lilacs’ scent of sweet sillage lingers for a puff

Leaving painted imaginary doodles of agitated air behind

Foregathering in the wakes of napes, and marooned nooks

Of plumped and ripened orange bursting splurt lily petals

Their maws squeeze shut on the last gasp of sunshine

Quaking with smiling fey orgasms gasping for breath

As the sun harvests just a few more minutes each day

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