this layer of plaster,
caked in a manner so rudimentary.
nonchalant, like it
doesn’t even need to be there,
and it probably shouldn’t.

there is no ventilation,
and the medicine cabinet reeks
of metal rusted
from condensation accumulated
over the thirty years
this attic has been converted.

droplets of tea,
tainted in that manner.
runoff can be lethal
if consumed in large doses.
it dries in gaps throughout,

tainting the underside
of a toilet seat, behind
the sink, and caked to walls.

this old haunt
is what it will be called
when the urge to scrub
the scum ceases
and the reflex gags me
to death.

dead, starving
leafless.
i can not think
of a use for a tree
but to dwell upon it.

colonize and feast
on the entrails
until it rots from the inside
out.

next phase,
as the sapsucker
pounds upon the trunk
and the discord
reverberates through dense
patches of birch.

but again, i can not
yet think of a use.
the leaves fell five
seasons ago.

and they will not fall
again. cycles end
when outsiders offend.
extricate the sappiness,
feed the larvae,
feed on the larvae.

it now stands on it’s own accord.

awaiting to be detruncated
by some unforeseen force.

frigid, childless
corpse.

a monument to failure,
a centerpiece
of divorce.

tingles, stings
like sediment compacted
in a narrow tube
trying to force itself out.
pressure stresses
the urethra.

think bacteria,
think inflamed
and sore. pink
at the tip
and it burns
when little dribbles
come out,
stay in.
make up your mind.

i’m losing my edge,
i need a glass of water.

free men, they call themselves;
those confined hearts that are dining
on fine china drinking aged wine
knowing not a desire or cause of whining.

the rest of us sit idle,
brittle dirt walls holding
this fortress, a prison
barless chasm with sediment molding.

hapless mice of christmas eve,
we gnaw our cracked lips
as they wipe off with their sleeves.
i hear their footsteps fade
as the night proceeds.

and this night, i dream
of the carriage’s dowel
cracking under pressure
and perforating their bowels

so that they might feel
the piercing within,
the crawling of skin, hair erect,
from skewered intestine

and forget not the real hand that feeds
through sowing and toiling.
or you’ll wake to find a plot of weeds,
served a dinner of meat, festered and spoiling.

footprints collect dust and wind
themselves down, southwest.
sprawl the dusted land trampled
dead. navajo, arid, barren, are we
there yet? no, it’s not quite time.
there is still a pulse,
a rising chest, a sign of life.

back home,
it’s humid, but you can still breathe
without the sand-infested breeze.
this is droughtful, anything that moves
remains unsure. down here,
life is at the bottom of the food chain,
and sun-blistered valleys ascend
to concealing mountaintops.

a broken verse in key
with a withered crop,
cracking at the stalk; lips
are parched and splitting
at the edge. ballooning out
and breaking pledge to the barrier
between a dry and splitting throat.

urge, yearn, evoke
a drop of sympathy, sorrow;
empathy forged into regrets,
as the constant of inconsistency
the nourishment shortly burrows
and embeds itself into the sands.