Way deep out
Amongst the yucca and the red clay
And the gust licked dust that whips
Out in that emptiness
That arachnid injected twilight
In the .38 bullet hole star shine
Past the cactus mice catacomb caverns
And the sound of the yuma bat dinner bell
Due east of the Amargosa
In the long dusk shadow of the valley of death
Out in that darkness
Out in that night
There is an octagon
An arena where man begat men
Men in trunks tearing men into tatters
And their cold feet dance across the canvas
On an eight sided blood spattered ad space
And the onlookers gawk at the spectacle
The fascists sit ringside with capitalists
Rows of crypto materialist maggots
Way deep out
In the field of the flock of sanctified
And the fruit of the hands of the firstborn
Out in that wilderness
That pasture sewed with bloodlet and wrath
In the eyes of the reference image
Past the abominable human oblation
And the hush of the soul as it taps out
Out in that presence
There is a wanderer
You don't need a mood ring
There’s one out now that thinks things
Reports the hours of rem sleep
And tracks your exercise streak
For a low monthly fee
It suggests therapy
While an influx of water
Joins the terabyte river
Technological torus
By your bed every morning
Another reason to stop thinking
And why you don’t need a mood ring
I am so
CR-V wrapped around a pin oak tree
Gutter possum carcass by the Caterpillar rental
Porous ooze of adolescent effervescence
Threadbare to the point where every thread tears
Bathroom sharer with a Cummins diesel engine
Product of obsessive pattern recognition
Polly Pocket clothing chewer
Compulsive dead skin knuckle peeler
Thatch of curls cleft to a loser
People pleasing party hopper
Perceived by neighbors on the front porch
Scared of pretty people in the airport
Veteran of the minivan back middle seat
Keeper of a secret I can never keep
Changeling to replace your brothers only brother
Second row, third one over, in the cluster
Brett Breshears is a poet from Raytown, MO.
