Sweet Dirt (Portrait 10)

You thought it would’ve been water and initially you were right. Then, the ocean changed. No one was surprised. After all, that’s what we do, change, survive, change again if we don’t die first. Not very poetic. What nipped us in the ass was the increasing storm surges and haunting fires. Beautiful when viewed from a computer screen, the greys of wind whipped sea, the coal red of fire eating its way through forests. Sometimes I think voyeurism is humanity’s best quality. We gaze at beauty and swallow it, holding it in, while it eats at us from the inside. Damn, if it wasn’t for beauty, we might’ve been better off.

And so, it came down to dirt, sweet dirt. This is what we had to learn to respect. Funny….learning how to respect something. You think we had already learned. Again, you’re wrong. No wait, I’m wrong. Because now I know. We needed to worship dirt, not carve it up, colonize it, bend it, treat it like infinity. I could wash my hands a thousand times and this dirt would always stain my fingers. I’m ingrained with the soil. You’re the same as me.

Now scarce, we look for the sweet spots, where the dirt is still alive, wormy, nutrient filled. We’re hunters of dirt.



Primary Voice


Inside the blue melody, exists

The longing that exudes from us.

Proves, we are all dynamics

Ingrained in buzzed-out bodies.

With arms flying alive

Reaching for sound

Feet uncontrollable, legs alien

Outside ourselves, always, as we

Feel the shake, when

We cry—with the dance in our limbs

And the rhythm is reddened

Beyond our hunger and bite

Even among the simplest listen.

Waves pushed outward

Past our personal magnetic shields

Blooming around us in green

harmonic overtone tone rows

Passed beyond our ability

To move, received by

Antennae of mind and soul

Which is just, just, just

A receiver of the search of flight

Free of gravity and anchored femur

Seeking other statics, scales, and modes.

For the noise of light, which

Has been playing its colors

Upon our very, very, very origins.

And upon pronouncement of our silence

Will paint forever

Spaceship Shops


This town is not mine.

Its sidewalks— as grey as they

Have ever been.

The evaporating rain—still the same.

But when I walk the streets

I peer into shops

As if they are spaceships

Newly landed—and I fear

Walking into one of them

Will make my money

Transport to specific coordinates

Set by the US Bank—For it is they who—

(The empire who struck first

Who keeps on striking)

Turned my simple walks with wine in hand

To expeditions of payment plans.

Tickets must be purchased online

So, that the spaceship shops know




Exactly what it is

That I don’t really need

And must not live without.

They assure me,

(the ensigns of the spaceship shops)

That the universe is ever expanding

At a faster and faster balloon mortgage rate

(They call it “greed matter” commonly known

as dolla’ dolla’ bill y’all)

And that there is no way

It can be slowed down…and

That my city can never be

A city like the city it once was

Even though their shops

Are patterned after the city that once was

Where I developed the first anti-matter attitude

And a dangerous dance called the warp core breach.

Which they all seem to have down

Better than me.

Because they can afford to do so.

This makes me think

I should have become an astronaut

A developer, or an alien

But no. I preferred to walk.