mainframe iterations

simulated heads
flap
rubber jaws

autopilot eyes
spiral
on screens

tin foil
reactions
jitter

a plastic tiger
skulks
through the clutter

one click
purges
the inert mass of suffering

Listen to my reading of this poem on Twitter:

untitled night

a frayed shirt
hangs still
in the window

thought I had forgotten 
that moment from yesterday

a silhouette of oak
climbs up the glass
frame of a moonlit eye

a color so shallow
jumps out of the pane
yet so deep it leaps 
back behind the space
it fills with its
strange delight

and a feeling of something unknown
imposes its brief order 
like a small bite
then slips its dark tail
back into the night

makeshift refuge

"allow me, 
to show you the interior,"
hisses the hungry maw
on a muscular rope

but the cricket leaps
into a garage and probes
boxes of forgotten shoes
and obsolete gadgets

a choir sweeps the cricket
to others nestled in the folds
of an old favorite shirt
crumpled behind paint cans

lulling each other
with songs of refuge,
they dream of ropes without orifices
and cricket houses, Mid-century modern

while parasitoids possessed
by choral arrangements
nest into cricket bodies and dream
of flight paths and aerial maneuvers

warped hammock

what resonates below
in this bent hull
but a shimmer from above
where the sunlight plays
a humble tune 
on tattered strings
stretched all the way out
to a crooked horizon

Here’s a humble tune of hope I sometimes play when I feel like I’m swinging in a warped hammock.