The phone rings and you’re jack-tailing it down a rabbit hole. It’s mostly dust and sweeping waves of heat. It’s turning constant spin and down and smash.
You whisper and the taste you feel is a scream. Shadows and nightmares scrimmage vying for ancient dread. One slipping gasp and down and smash.
the walking man dances
into forgotten forests
where trees sing and
rabbits grow wise
the path is worn and comfortable
where the walking man dances
quizzical, the quizzical man looked
more annoyed than he should
be it necessary to call a bluff
or take up with the illusive
flower he now plucks from his hat
and disappears
I understand why the worlds in such a mess.
It’s because the generations before
you hate nature.
This dust
in the floor is not to be
thrown away.
It is to be gawked at.
Or, in that double
backward idiolect,
was it meant to be
thrown away?
