Cataloging the Detritus of my Life
The planet
Punched, blown
Out,
Dispersed.
The atmosphere
Down. Near
Zero
Burned away.
Burned off.
The sky?
Junk.
No people in this one and nothing dying. Just a blasted planet. Was it too close to it’s own sun? Did it’s atmosphere get caught up by a interstellar object travelling across it’s orbit? Did something terrible happen there long ago? Who knows… rock and stone never reveal their secrets.
Snap
The cartridge bumps
(An odd
Sound)
Into the firing
Chamber
Hits,
Then…
Nothing,
Free,
Weightless,
Wrong,
Dead.
I’m beginning to notice a focus in these poems: Death. I think I need to focus on making these poems more surreal and less and morbid.
Alone,
I resented the
Darkness.
Knowing that,
Anyhow,
You’ll die
Helpless.
Th[e] endless
Dark,
Forgotten,
Dead.
Fight
everybody fights
Except
that I was afraid
Privately,
quietly
Really,
really
Just,
just
I snapped
And I wondered
was it just me?
