Threadbare as Lichen

some of us,
crowded placid granite,
even by my own,
in a time that speaks for its highest heat
given the many materials that exist,
which we manipulate to pass the time and keep others from success,
there must be a solution that rings like the dawning of fowl.

seats of grass.
dirt should stay under your fingernails,
and the same should be the cushion of your skeleton in all the fragmented places that you venture
to keep alive that boiling desire,
that human coil of sentience
and the trouble that is our ambition.

draw to the days,
near to the soul,
but far from the world.
the perfect mixture that brought us into being cannot be told,
but it can be felt quite cold.
leave on the lights of the sky and the night,
and turn down the voluminous ache of disturbances.

the person who is called I,
who is the lot and total of sightseers and submarines,
beached and breathtaking even when it’s black,
dreaming of island planets,
where even still the disconnect is discordant.
our blood is always like oil and vinegar

music collides,
“we thought we’d see the other side!”
quotas and quotients, an overpopulation, and that is where I want to live.
Abundance made explicitly.
a savage.
take it all away,
my draping psychology is exempt.


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Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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