webs collect in the shadowed corner above my head over my desk i try not to disturb them no arachnid artifice no dried up husks offered as proof of services rendered for peaceful coexistence just a little electrical charge a little dust tracked in from outside some dead skin cells the hair from the dogs or maybe the cat who even now tries to claw her way up my leg to settle in my lap or purring against my chest these are atomic ancestors descendants yet unborn related not by dna but by nuclear half-life electron clouds vibrating strings no ashes for me after death for i have spent my life spreading myself generously with every itch scratched and every casual exhalation
Tag: dust
something red (20170703)
i am a brick
or
i am made of bricks
one is reductive
the other an amalgam
both are red and brittle
and you can draw on the sidewalk
with a bit of it
clutched in your fist
hanging of the the bottom
of your hand
like a turd
that won’t drop
they say the jews
made bricks in egypt
and built the pyramids
even though that’s
probably not the case
but who knows
i have a time machine
in my head
but it’s faulty
no matter
how i try to travel to the future
the damned thing always pulls up
to a new york apartment
i don’t know and wasn’t
expecting
a doorman opens the door
his coat is red
the color of bricks
Words and Feathers 