I and the Guls

Skeewahhh!

Skeewahhh!

Shore friends. Dives for fish, yes.

off-white-grey-tinged

Skeewahhh!

Parking lots in summer

Scattered about the fast food trash shredding wrapper remains.

ten feet soaring above the tips of my hair.

These M's. call them m's.

Smiling towards the sun in the upper right hand corner or left. Do they scorch so close?

...skeewah.

mascots for the Island.

reminders of home, the image no longer sits

my pajamas don't exist

bare and colourless

Squawking. Saltyness and thick in the air when the green and lush appear and block

the backing sky drop. Eden.

Calls. On this streetlightpost they have me

neck bent up expressions in agreeance and contour smile lines, fault lines. Plates are ever retreating. Yellow brown grains. I'd bury my legs. I'd awkwardly hobblerun through the minidunes to the waterfoam's edge and scoop the sludge. Skeewah take that! Amateur target practice. Stake-outs. I, a rogue, hardened with revenge and hopelessness. Sludge flies and divides like buckshot. Never treaded beyond the break.

Skeewahh! My dead watch...digital...1 minute 'til punch-in. Feet increase pace. Feet with one with split toe with blood with scarring in between with all the webbing, where was once functional anatomy. Still I swim the concrete with tired paddles. Forget them perched up there...guardians of the clouds and make whites on our shoulders.

avenue song

Warehoused inspiration sewers

dry and overly sipped

overly treaded, stampeded over

The movement here, i believe, is over

brooklyn

The renaissance-flickering

the generation-dying a resonance 

I speak the words and regret them all

I am the after-thought 

the summary. paraphrase.

Day begins, ends with LIVE POULTRY SLAUGHTER

Active? yes.

Under the floors of my own

where I find the calm.

Men in labcoats, gloves

Scientists? no.

Shoveling dried-iced red spotted bags into commercial vans.

Those bloodied guts gloves!

[and how can he drink coffee and bring the massacre hands so close to his lips?] 

chicken intestinechunk left purple shining next to a cardboard flap decomposing 

...slipped form the ripping bags

Yes, poultry screams

poultry cries

and poultry misses their mothers

The smell-

I pain to imagine the magnification in summer heat

the smell-

I wrap my scarf around my face and still my eyes sting

the smell-exponential death

I will carry a cloth in the coming days of warmth

hold my breath like passing a cemetery 

The origin of the superstition?

Sure.  Let us, at least, not smell the slaughter

and pay them that respect.