© 2023 by MCLA Spires. 

April 25, 2019

In the early dawn,

drawn from sleep, I snake through

dewy grass. Light gleams off of these

fresh blades, in the foreground

of the thicket. Voluptuous oak and pine

tower over these younglings and

 this youngling, with damp Converse.

Forsythia fondle my feet as I follow


April 25, 2019

Some kind of sadness in the

skin of the dog—neck cut crisp

against the leash—

hand—stranger—tugging along

nature false—around the pond

three times—garrote on the bark—

by domestic dullest—remembered path—

back behind walls—dog

trained—loves in accord.


April 25, 2019

There’s something visually poetic

about a man sleeping under a shrine

of himself

what good will your vanity do you?

what good will your billions do you?

We worship everything from money to power.

The man in the White House

surely sleeps clutching onto his ego.

I’d like t...

April 25, 2019

At this point, all my covert movements are incontinent. I must’ve shoved the devil into that ruby-red habanero before I shucked the seeds, if you catch my blip. I garlic breathe onto the blueprints. I rhyme AMERICA with mise en scene. I put the bullet in bingo. All thi...

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