(c) E.P. Robles 2013

II

thinking with my organic something is unappeal
how to enjoy the meal life gives bland stove-top petrify indoctrination gadget
infused miniaturization of ghastly do-little meat puppets chatting nonsense
when weather is fair.

regardless of my attire my organic something always dresses in emperors
clothing and secret eyes admire from afar the fine tailoring of that 3.5 pound
of mystery meat whose function I could care less about unless it’s under a
scalpel in bright lit operatic stage

i am the audience and the play and refusal to say my preordained lines is an
orgasmic neurotic sensation that mostly only a God can know — save me

Please…save me, okay?

and when that musty wind glass shatter beneath carpet-burned boney knee I am
very pleased as the pain is affirmation that my knee still alive but the rest
of the husk of a carbon-based brilliant animal is walking dead beneath sodium
vapor light abandoned roads leading nowhere but that spot you sleep and wake
and dream and shit and eat and copulate upon.

that spot…dirty isn’t it?

my refusal to admit or decree a sacred source
but flowers toil and the soil is moist
a perfect spot for this organic something

a depth of six feet south

:: 02-08-2014 ::