There is a whispering wood...

At a breakneck speed,

I am...

Weaving through stacks

Of trees, and tracking

An enigma that can

Not be seen...

...It's calling...

"Are you there?...O, can you hear?...

...For so long I felt your presence

From the back vaults

Of my eyes..."

Now on the hunt

I cannot seem

To upend or to capsize

The ponderous stone

That is

Your dwelling

In this hinterland

Of half-light...

Leave me with a chip or shred!...

Something I'll

Take home to bed...

Saturate me to the bone...

Heed my plea, so I can strive...

7/22/24

Bunny Villaire

I am drifting again,

Floating in the back of my mind-

Lost.

I struggle to come to the surface,

But it's a losing battle-

A speck of sand

Fighting against the flow

Of the pounding waves.

It drowns me in emptiness,

And leaves me hollow.

I'm trapped in a prison of flesh and bone,

The only respite when I bleed razor red.

I want to break free,

Want to feel again.

But the tide is ignorant of my cries-

It goes on and on,

Crushing.

Suffocating.

Killing me slowly.

An industrial-strength thumbtack surprise

Rises a full inch above its thumb-press head

On a chair seat of such nefarious devise–

A lark for brat pricks who planned it ahead

The laws of physics co-conspired with them, 'gainst her

T'would be gravity that'd bring her fat ass straight down

And dermal elasticity would fail and condemn her

A violent end defining a fat babysitter's renown

She lowered herself, eased down to the seat

Where disaster lay wait to ceremoniously skewer her

Video was rolling in broadcast conceit

And tyrannized children TikTok streamed it to viewers

There is a tiny hole

Where my calendar used to be

That invitation I didn't attend

Plus one, minus one fuck you

is what I’d say to her

there still married by the way

that thing I didnt attend

maybe I should buy a new calendar

kittens or scenery?

I don’t even know what day it is

anyways

theres a hole in my heart

so big a thumb tack could fit

Buddha’s son was named Fetter

and he chiseled away

at the spine of the dog

named simply Ouray.

Lost in deep contemplation

but unable to walk,

he sits in his cushion

while the rest of us talk.

We squeeze out his bladder

each morning and night,

and his dung gets divested

while he hums with delight.

Poor Ouray can’t stroll

but feels deeply at ease.

He’s awaiting his papa

while he sits there in peace.

This is all just to say

that burdens aren’t as real

as the joy in our hearts

that is aching to feel.