hoard

joy be gained from the starvation
of modern living
scattered between and throughout the strewn
newspaper clippings and random specific things
that make it up and tear it down;
it's the specter of endless, cyclical self-ingestion
regurgitation
behind fat walls and easy discourse,
simple decorative patterns and
harmless fucking questions

soul be sown from the sympathy
of objects,
furniture, things
stationary and obsolete, a scattered glass,
unjingled keys,
felt separately yet sharply missed in
sequence

"pornography resembles
the end of the world"
the thickly woven dreams we shudder and clutch
between whispering white sheets
echo howls of shrieking lust


when smoke seeps out
from under my eyes
i chew the baby gray burn and blow it
out of my nostrils
it curls around the foggy glow from
telescreens and lambent op-eds
radio talk takes in its stride,
weaving swaths of wasted wheat in their wake
but damn that pursuit for truth and justice
rages on like a thirsty dog on a summer day