Entropy Vs. Eudaimonia

As children we were fed safety glass,

geometric fractions, viscous with blood

and saliva, and we were doused

in gasoline. We were born to breathe

CH4, CO2, N2O and our shadows would

be cast through swarms of heat. We

would watch even the mirages evaporate 

because we know impact intimately, and

our skies are miasmal shades of brown, and

our seas are gravid with endocrine disruptors. 

We’ve had our skeletal structures engraved on

bumpers and windshields  of foreign autos

at various velocities. We were

saturated in corn syrup and were given 

C15H16O2 to play with in petroleum cradles.

We were born to a dying planet,

hurtling through an entropic universe

at suicide speeds.





(Geologic Plagiarism in Three Acts)


Act 1: The Empire


Made of flames and
in each other. 
The only gravity we couldn’t defy 
was our own.

We were scrawling

horizontal movements

across vertical lives.

Fondling with

lungs of liquid mercury, and

smiling with

hearts of melted snow.

Mostly, we were just

lips on lips

in lightless stairwells.

And mostly, I said no.


It had rained,
earlier. And,

on my back,

I watched 
those drops on glass
and slide into
each other. Unlike us.


His agonizing, unwarranted thrusts,
that was the meaning of fear.
But I watched raindrops

on glass play the pauses
of their movement 
with such poetry. 

The coitus of their polarity, 
there was gravity there,
that biting cold
that misplaced fog.


Yet their regretless lecherousness was ephemeral.


Thus fell the empire. 


Act 2: Quantum suicide


June was distillation. 
Blood on stone 
and spring in leaves.
The supposition of inanition 
and rising. Triumph so grand
it left ghosts in the gorge 
and birth
simultaneously superimposed 
on the rim of the red wall. 
I am the haunt of the hills,

thrice dead, but countless times




Act 3: Summit


I fade now

into the bowels of the prehistoric,
to fearless, dusty, silent places,
there is no loneliness here. 
With parched lips, drag my aching
bodies again to the light.
Then up. 
To places of bare black rock
and cheek-biting, digit-numbing
Until sunrise to be surrounded
by the unforgiving integrity of 
the midnight mountain universe.

To the top of the world,
on brittle bones
till the sun melt my wings
that I may find reason
to breathe.




Narcissus Necrosis


Recalculate your colors,
those of stolen roses.


They are
yellow petals on hospital linoleum.
They are

frigid stanzas in your obituary.
They are

lost among adjourned wishes.
They are

pulling down the stars.

The Desolation


English will watch while

the promised places dry and

drown in blood.


English will let their rivers run cold,

and will call the lands that birthed civilizations

barren, infertile, desolate, impotent.


English will let cultures fall

and when the cultivators are dead

we will call their lands deserts.

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