death

Tourist Seasons

midwestern tourists with white socks pulled halfway up their calves in polo shirts with muted tones. Deep in exchange with drug-addled tokens of lost rave days, negotiating mouthfuls of tentacles. A sentence escapes, directions and change and ten salutations to old mischief and gods lasso’d from plants and sci-fi pages. Foreign travel informs other language …

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Death Posturing

You’re done for. There‚Äôs one thing, then another, and there’s nothing after that. What does that mean? A cleverly concealed pocket-knife could wiggle me away from a railroad tie-down, and suddenly my sour mid-life expiration could alter to paper-skin ancient, eyes pearled and body bent to occupy chairs that wheel and rock. Or maybe future-me …

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Two Crows, 2:36AM (1)

2:36AM Two crows on the fence, waiting. They tell me: Listen. I do. Listen harder. Am I dreaming? No. Perfect. Listen. Fine. Triple-lock the door. I peak through the blinds. Two crows on the fence. Still waiting. Caw. Do humans turn crow as purgatory, trapped observing the living with their kind-of-a-funny-stories and toddlers tied to …

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