Pray on, everyone.
As they prey on everyone.
Ask God to make it all okay,
While they’re ripping their own flesh away.
Because God had told them what to do.
The very same God you’re praying to,
To ask for comfort and help from Him.
Should He listen to you or to them?
Dust it off,
That brain of yours.
Open up your mouth.
Clear away the junk.
Come out of the fog
Say what you really want to say.
But everyone keeps asking how you feel,
Expecting you to say, I’m fine.
And everyone keeps asking,
What you’re going to do,
Expecting you to say,
Well, I have one or two ideas.
But you have none.
You feel numb.
But that’s not important.
A little gentle deception won’t hurt.
I feel just fine.
Life is good.
I have everything figured out.
I just need you to think that I’m okay,
In order for me to be okay.
I dug a piece of ruby red glass out of the ground,
Pulled it up with the dead twigs of last year’s peony flowers.
It was intertwined with them, as if they were holding on to it.
Keeping a little treasure for their very own.
Like arrowheads in the Southwestern United States,
Such finds are fairly common around here.
Not too far from Nybro, home of Kosta Boda.
Here in the Kingdom of Crystal.
Yes, it’s really called that.
It’s hard to tell what this piece was meant to be.
Maybe a handle of some kind.
It’s curved and perfectly smooth on one side,
Sharp and jagged on the other.
This little town used to have its own glass workshop,
But it shut down many years ago.
No trace of it left now.
Apart from little artifacts like these.
It was probably part of a failed piece,
Cast into a waste pile.
A crystal midden, redistributed by bulldozers.
The little broken treasures lost,
Until dug out of backyard flowerbeds.
Dead beetles die in their skins, and
Seychellois, Mauritanians, Maurtians, Martians,
Fighting with sun-tans all, and
Bad lip jobs,
Silent giraffes groping for love,
Tending to antelopes,
And the world ending
In a traffic jams or,
Dicks in space-suits building railways through the heart of a city.
♦Photo♦ Friends of Nairobi National Park
-short evocative poetry-
sweets on a plate
lens cleaner is,
What we took to bed.
Red he says, but he’s deaf,
With earphones on,
Police frames and Louis Vuittion,
And perfect lips,
Peach by the way, like
I said, I
Lost my shoes in India and the Geisha wasn’t real.
♦photo♦ – Hyunception: Movie Reviews & Analysis♦
-short evocative poetry-
Pick it up; handle it.
Hands have driven us,
finger manipulation of
My fingers ache tremendously
when you’re around.
Fingers help spread the news.
Lost; growing black inside,
all twelve have padded tips.
You punish me for telling you my fantasy,
At night I lock the door so no one else can see,
Watch while the queen,
In one false move,
Turns herself into a pawn,
Drinking gasoline to quench your thirst until there’s nothing there left at all, I
Went to the doctor I,
Went to the mountains,
And then you happen to bring up reincarnation over,
A couple of beers the other night,
Spitting out all the bitterness along with half of my last drink,
This is no ordinary love,
Able only to gasp at the splendor of the sun,
Saturns rings are lit by the Universe’s light!
Photo – ♦Natsumi Hayashi♦
-evocative short poetry-