Geyser
When you’re popular and feared, you’re a legend.
I’m faithful to the worst in me.
In shorts and linen shirts, they circle me as if chained. A cool mist is what they need.
They talk about movies and won’t back off.
Gobble me as content. Their feeds are the movie of my mind.
The heart of a geyser is equivocal. My steams tumble,
the heat seeps, I parch up. How many more expressions will I enjoy?
People don’t like poise. They want a show even if it singes.
I sell or it closes. I have the power of astonish. I aspire to fire.
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Tradition
Poetry is a creeping nostalgia.
The ivy honors predictability all the way up the trunk it strangles.
The moon isn’t changing, it’s spinning.
Even the night air can’t breach the edges of itself.
x words in the English language — there’s no agreement.
I wear them like lipstick. Rouged over for tradition.
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Rattle
A rattle is a thing used to make a rattling sound.
A baby’s toy or the set of horny rings at the end of a snake’s tail.
The toy is just a container filled with pellets. It amuses babies, unless it scares them.
Some rattles are made of silver, but most are made of plastic.
Some are wood and create a sound like falling rain.
The pellets must be much smaller than the container. Or the sound would be different, more of a thud.
Inside their case the pellets can be any color, mad ochre or bug gray. No one sees them.
The pellets are lost in the container, like sharp intuitions caught in the vacant heart.
You say you have feelings.
Rattle, rattle.
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Moon
Sans mythos
Sans teleos
Sans poesy
Sans femininity
Is plenty