August 8 by The Running Son
•··^v·• we said never again •·v^··•
this family, so compacted,
contracting in dark matters and play acting
with gravity, laughing until each collapses in,
creating orbits that displace nearby crescented objects.
this clever fashioning of
children into men’s dreams, then outsourcing:
befriending gatekeepers armored for weather
genetically farmed to fall or spring temperately and feathered.
this state of the state.
Impatiently we hear drums, never learned
to wait, nation of shifting mind states startled
awake by twin planes, explaining rising heart rates.
this sin, contracted from
some third or fourth generation’s reveling
in freedoms to prolong non-porous skin
and bucket kicking, while listing reasons to continue existing.
these body toxins. Systems,
shocked into springing up octaves dreaming,
prefer clean sleep and clear blood paths to craft
new cells, and attack twin hells: dull eyes. Bottomless wells.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.