Monday, June 2, 2008

I fall by night,
following the foul fragrances of embered-irises and
a certain kind of stone (brimming with odious omens);
pursue patios,
gardens of shards,
hard-smashed cement,
and open-window victims.

I, trap-setter, chase roots flayed and spread like limbs; leave petals and faces
poised and posed for the mortician.
He takes the pictures home for his children, the sons
of the obituaries who are never mortified by
the thin, morbid monuments; trite
documents of death.

They're the ones I have a little trouble
washing down the garbage disposal;
they make it sound like Satan's seeping up
from Hell.

Just a pointless practice piece, albeit demented. I used James' poem of a similar name as a skewed sort of source material.

Check the comments two posts down for a slight update on expansion/new website ordeal, if you will.

I filled my tires with air today.