small

small is a feeling that comes when you are looking too hard. i think human is a funny word that tries and tries again to remake itself. we all tire of the plasticity, the urgent tragics, the flame, all that resonance.

we all talk about rescuing but really this is no utopia. it is a long tangled web.

Those who have lost are ones I can know best.

the feeling of transparency sometimes
sometimes I mistake that with peace. even still can I deny the beauty of the fade? I always caressed the scenery.

****



call it war
i'm pasting it down
in the rotten paged books
as error.

a wide scar
opening claiming more
of me and I feel I am thinning
out
asking a gloved woman
for the scapel
cause the way we all
collide accidentally
happens, and if what happens happens
no thinking is left but here
dangling

hearing moans that wake you
when you are away
all I can say now is how
to keep the triage
down to a whisper.

asking where the humans went
between stitching flesh
of thirsting wounds.

sirens everywhere
watching them need, bleed at once...