POEM #5
these
hands are black
from the
viscid soot of a hearth
coughing
thick smoke
aflame
with the mystery
as
laughable in absurdity, as terrorsome in outcome;
i fluttered
with the swivet of all lawless entrants,
like
Ramirez or Kemper stripped of their murderous poise;
like some
encroaching rapist
or
old, ugly pedophile santa ---
but i
stuck in the narrows of its brick chimney
and now i
am but the repugnant bezoar
firm in
the gastric orifice
of this
house, we call it life,
waiting
to be vomited out
into the
trajectories of all failing things.
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