Some Poems

Fleeting Life
The buck tumbles over
into a bed of clover,
then rises and flees
wild-eyed through the trees,
weaving left and right
beneath that November night
like a ghost newly taken to flesh
attempting to break in the mesh.
He staggers, drops, rises again,
bloody saliva on his chin
as his breathing slows and heaves
and he scatters crimson leaves
with his furious, futile flight
beneath the dimming moonlight,
his escape doomed from the start—
the bullet already in his heart.

The Cult of Atticus
She wore his words
as if a thousand others
did not wear the same
trite trinkets
in their selfies.

He used Occam’s Razor to neuter his
cutting it here and there so it would not
piss rampantly
all over his brain;
he tamed it with a mind sharpened on the
whetstone of
Reason, trimming the
dangling with their unsightly
potency and
unwieldy impetus toward
disciplining its zealotry with
severe scissors
so it might serve as a moral example
without being aggressive, so it would never
breed wildly, but instead
was a calm, reassuring
throughout his life
who would,
in the end,
lay down in his lap
and comfort him as he
drifted off
to sleep

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