Sound of the Black Hound
the black dog
the black dog hunts
the black dog hunts at night
boom/boom/boom/boom
heavy bass
heavy bass
bat screech minor
silent wind sashays
see see the black dog run
pentatonic scale
dribbles on asphalt
one finger at a time
apply heavy pastels
only black keys
make division
bodies tarnish inurn
alone in a lounge
on certain nights
undying plastic
duplicate keys
depression glass
holds a long note
discordant smudge
the black dog
the black dog howls
the black dog howls at night
boom/boom/boom/boom
heavy bass heavy bass
never a harp
denouement seizure
in idiot tongue.
Oasis
Like a violent specter
released from its grave,
a sandstorm erupts—
suffocating half our fighters
(who understood the risk)
but laying waste
to the entire robotic horde.
We cruise the dunes
in fumeless vehicles
reveling in victory
well into darkness.
The curfew is lifted,
my possessions returned to me.
All that I require has been kept
in a child’s playbox—
buried by a plastic shovel
beneath scoops of falling sand.
The King’s Horsemen
Forget what you think you saw.
The sunflower is already dead—
trampled by livestock no longer content
to be domesticate,
imprisoned by barbs and harsh shocks.
There are no handholds for what has passed.
Determined travelers will find where
the road ends,
a pile of gravel surrounded by cornstalks
and weeds. Disillusioned,
they abandon their vehicle in haste.
Capturing the moment
is myth meant to console erosion of the familiar.
Experience defies being taken.
Alone, we are left to consider
the inner landscape of a field car,
needing to know its dreams,
the drawing out of its fears.
It will tell you it cannot be objectified
in permanent brokenness,
stand for more than its own passing identity,
and will never be a source
for conjuring art from the artless.
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