do the dishes

i feel like a nightmare ̶

scooped peas out of a stained sink

w/ fingers all chewed up

terror phantasmic skull cave-in

the kind of feeling that’s like a premonition

i’ve done this thousands of times

worked menial mechanized organic motions

thru spacing ̶ being there

not being there

thoughts that could make good poems

but thoughts aren’t that easy

the trick is poetry

and feeling like a nightmare

every once in awhile

doesn’t hurt

Two Poems

An Ode

This is an ode to a broken window

who receives rain’s bosom.

This is the time for redemption

as vines creep toward

our open arms,

as we sing the song

of daybreak dulled.

Let your sky destroy

the nothing that throttles

our minds.

They, Who

They invented ghosts

to cover salted earth.

They taught children

formalities to soften

dispositions, to sell

hands and arms as maps

gesturing into the unknown,

directing willed doom.

They coordinated feigned

knowledge to digest untruth

and reteach us until soil saturates

until air solidifies

until water congeals.

They were the subjects

who were never subjected

to the uncontrolled.

They were never subjugated

rather insulated until history

finally broke its own mold.

They, who created the cycle

yet never conquered love.

To Wear Disease Around Your Neck

The ebola necklace at the flea market

was not in the shape of a microbial

ambiguous blur, nor did its reddened

insides resonate on a blue slide.

No, the item was not an artist’s rendering

of some surreal flattened figure.

The ebola necklace gemstone

was a vial in which liquid

shifted as its steel chain-link swung

before the pale vendor gushing

about the ebola necklace.

The worm-like replication

floated peacefully in its cage

hanging from a wooden rack

among the inane as privileged customers

laughed while touching the novelty,

the disease only temporary to them;

it, the object between plump, pallid fingers ̶

the ebola necklace at the flea market.