It’s okay

for an erratic

like moi wrapped tight

in a creature essence,

back-hitched and twisted,

bent fisting hummocks

of bless-ed contempt.

 

A run-on forms

roundhousedly

amid whispering mists

and redtail hawk feathers,

omening,

 

“One lip

ahead the next,

and again, infinitum

should you dine

on psych’s

sorrow meds.

Rise up now or die,

butterfly of samsara!”

 

I battle

brain death

in schistic ways,

it’s a recrudescence

of esprit.

Mus Porcellus scripts

writ to suppress a god’s

surreal me –

a partial product

of PTSD,

variable genetic

and inherited heretic

mispositionalities.

 

So I walk

on my bones

of soft howlite,

directed by olfact

of river running

its current course;

it’s too often muddied,

at times bloodied

course, tangenting

pithy notions of

axing autocratic clouds

with butterfly wings

to wave hell

away.

 

A mostly black

appaloosa,

weaving tails

in feral foothills

by teeth,

morse codes

via ears in Nez Perce,

 

“Dirt shame if a shotgun,

a chaw on suicide;

voids escrow

stored in pink fruit

of left behind minds.

Your final dessert,

a letdown savour

of Hiroshima."