pouring
the metal of my morality
we
humans
lick
the wind
hide
in thickets
of
pick-its and the hair
that
grows from soft selling souls
the
forged molecular drive to buy more
we
have cut off the head
from
the body
save
for appearances
as
we are not quite yet
capable
as a race to see
disembodied
brains
afloat
in salient glass
and
wired to move
the
mechanics of old as dirt
spun
faster and faster
until
we are all hurting
in
the lengthening shadow fires
that
the ghosts of Autumn
sting
the quiet with
in
a quickened cricket laced slag
we
pace the sand
we
mound it and
we
depress it
with
a fast ladle working best
we
crawl the invocations
we
tease our freewill into cement
using
a bait and switch
a
demented lore which
with
its scented allure
of
something better
tells
us each letter
that
silence knows is both
suffering
and joy
and
though we toy with ideals
we
might not even know
after
the burn heals
that
our memory has stopped
pretending
it knows anything
other
than what
an
emotion smells like
EJR
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