Even Assholes Get To Be Anonymous
You hit a bottom — what they say it takes
to know you’re not okay. Find a program,
two initials; last one is A. To make
the circle round this room, brand new, goddamn
nervous, too, stripper at a church — not there
to pray. To find another way. To say
before a room of strangers that you bare
your breasts for money, and you woke in a
drug dealer’s bed last Saturday. It scared
you here. To them. To him, the leader, near,
who calls you poison, stare fixed square
against your tits. It’s drugs that brought you here.
You thought you hit your bottom in a bed.
You find it in a church basement instead.
True Crime in Trees
A book is nature, not good, evil, more
deciduous corpse of tree it used
to be. Stood 40 feet above & bore
its killers fruit, decade of shade, abused
by indifference, climbers fingers, feet
before the penetration of the blade.
The splintering skeleton bleats, creaks;
it’s branches claw away, attempt to stay
another fleeting second inside sky.
A slice of life, majestic thud, the sound
of falling gods vivisected ghost we buy,
put high, some shelf, a dead animal bound
for dusty sacrifice. Forget to read.
Its story is the suffering of seeds.
Image Credit: Flickr