Motion and Stillness
it all boils down. what are the bones. hurt and home and time. movement. the idea moving past you and inside you. then you are alone. then you cannot sleep. you want to be famous, but why. you want to die. be honest you little shit.
V.
We vultures.
We keep circling
presence of fog, in a boat,
each time we land
the lake swivels
we are on the other side again.
waiting game
graphed into wave form
undulating
laser slicing face out of a block
of butter.
VI.
The whistle sounds.
2 orderly lines
form unbroken
forever
blurry in a vast white.
somehow more white in the middle,
the white’s white anus
bursts to birth the black stitching.
VII.
pray
don’t throw a helpless whelp out on his ear
if you’ve work to do just point it out
we’ll be glad to help and if you want to pay
us for it
we’ll gladly accept your kindness.
Remember that
and the bar,
old drunk Galen in his cups,
“everything runs better with grease.”
But I, in my cups, thought he said geese.
I sneezed
imagining them
shouldering my weight,
tucking me in, companions
forever.
They work lard into their feathers,
get limber for the dance
dance around the stone,
wafting smoke of their last doober,
this is the night of prophesy.
cosmic goose shaman descends
honking whisper
the secret to me,
“put it all on the line with a shrug,
roost and eat bugs.”
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