Monday, July 29, 2013

motion in the sclera.

and if anything is dead we'll stuff it with pigs and plastic bags,
leave it all in fields we'll avoid in our beat up station wagons covered in rust.
we'll burn all the stalks that sssstick up, surround the plantations with heads on stakes.
the doors will be barred with no locks, no iron, no trap, no warning.
for a day or a week we'll hole up in temporary tribes and sleep in the same dirt
with our eyes on each other or our eyes on the endless ahead. 
singing birds will zazz over the hum and purr of insects that whip and chase.
a whole nation gone goddamn inside out and ribs up. 
you leave a trace of obstacles and distractions.
you leave an example and you leave a threat.
you save every song you've ever heard for no one.

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