horizon line stitched

The Desolate Places

Sole lox lunchbox
Bite full o’ soul
Tar by the shoreline
Bisected by sandbank
Oil derricks ablaze
Gas flames in the ozone grey

Stamp your heel in the sand
The tar ball forms a toothy edge
Blasted by seagulls drunk
On gas fumes thicken
the horizon line stitched by a tanker
To sky and sea
A uniform wash of concrete
At the end of sight

Site specific
And septic like the weak
The week you crushed black ants
And drooped them into the Pre-K
Pea soup and followed with lead
Flakes shingling off the window
Sills silly and smeared black
And white and black
Back to Mighty Mouse blaring
In the desolate spaces

“No one should go into debt to study creative writing. It’s simply not worth it. Do not think of it as an investment in yourself that you’ll be able to recoup later on. This is not medical school.”

— Ann Patchett

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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