lacking failures

it is not i
who taught me to forget
the fleshy bite
of time
that gnaws these bodies down
to archeology.

it is not you
who has yet to dig deep
enough to break
bones over bread
to feed
midnight.

it is not we
who have learned to discern
regret from balloons
of inflated guilt
twisted and bent
into animal shapes.




wb

and i hope they chirp tomorrow

somewhere in the midwest,
harvested and brown,
the air drowned us
at 75
miles per, some hour
before the afternoon

sharpened eyes in the corners
of rear view mirrors
bit down on the silence of the road
having its way with the rubber

and we lacked speech
while we sorted out the words
that had just spilled across the interstate

and the next day,
the birds chirped
as well as the day after that





wb

burlesque noir

as if watching an angel lose its wings
each one torn at the roots
bloody stumps drooling
with the ecstasy of freedom
from the strings attached to flight
no longer beholden to god's bidding
you were free
to be her child once again
and the crowd winced and cheered
as you rode them bare backed
with your grin puncturing through
each needle wound

and the spitting of raw meat
upon the open mouthed faces of the front row seats
while you chewed your way through the seams
sewn by your black gloved executioner
defying her breaking of your will with
the rhythmic slapping at the nubs
she left exposed to our bloodlusting bodies
but it was you who drank the cup
of your own making
while you stood high
on endorphins and whiskey,
and for the moment, high above
your pesky mortality.



wb