toe chunk gone:
smells like pizza now
every day [every day]
until it scabs up
a helmet– [A HELMET]
bounce off, infection!
like bullets
across the grey sky
traveling, [traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling]
consummate servants;
happiness [happinessssssss]
means target’s been hit.
Late, and it’s already gone.
The time for appropriation
left with the stage coaches
when the buffalo all died.
Skulls, ribcages, femurs rest
their weary bones on the turf–
muscle-laden monsters munched
upon the delicate roughage,
sure to save enough for later–
The grass is enshrining them,
filling in the rib spaces and placing
flickering votive candles on the scene.
Eight of the largest specimens known to man all once resided in this very location. Of course, they all occupied different spans of time, though many of them overlapped by a good several decades. The overlap periods are usually favorable, though sometimes two beasts of such stature end up doing nothing but fighting over the small patch of territory. It’s not exactly their domain because they don’t own it, but it’s a kind of sanctuary where they may do as they wish to their environment. They are highly evolved, sure, but their evolutions veered away from our human ancestors a couple million years ago when they decided to breed primarily for strength. At the time it was a brilliant decision, because they were quite fertile and stable. No other animals or tribes of humanoids would dare to invade a Megapithicus lair. Of course, they don’t call themselves Megapithicus. Our preeminent primate scholars assigned that fun name to them when they first saw the ulna of a particularly large Megapithicus man which they later dated to 20,000 BCE.
The sun
drills its agenda
through the western window
reinforcing dominance
on a Sunday afternoon–
sight impaired until
a blanket cumulus
soothes corneas, looms
before our daily heater
pierces and banishes it.
Misery once again.
Staring off into
an endless void
of forgetfulness and
fulfillment of purpose
through the simple act
of living
on this stage of consciousness.
Everybody else
around me may strive
for material goals,
and I lust
after similar things, but
my ultimate actions
do not
indicate that fact.
A busybody is one
who always
needs something
for their hands
to accomplish, even
if their constant enthusiasm
for productivity
impedes social or professional activity.
The rain
is not profane,
although
it won’t abstain
from running down
the drain,
a sound
that won’t refrain.
It drives the soul
insane.
This is a spur of the moment description
of how I like to draw and why.
I remember I recorded it around a year ago,
and listening again has inspired me to keep on chuggin’.
WHARVED 