Grass, underfoot


There are

No more molecules,


More vertebrates.

Thoughts or feelings.

Dot the sky,


Wispy crowds of clouds,

That gather around

The water cooler,

And simultaneously aid in spilling it.

The astral  janitor,

Whose prospects have always been good,


Whose memory is typically

Sharp like jagged geodes,

Long ago

Let the sun burn out.

The mailman,

Whose  very  engaged feet at one point traversed the globe,


A seat to feed the pigeons.

And a break from the crows.

So now the mail-boxes




Overflow into the streets.

Attempting to surrender.

(Hopelessly waving red-flags, because no white ones are available to them.)

 But there are still lines.



Amorphous space ships


Ambiguous pictures,

Surrounded by a backdrop of black skies,

And attempt to




 The  universe.

That is usually

Literally linear.

But their futility is well known.

To aliens.

To the audience.


To the gallery.

Parallel lines

Provide congruent


Ample traction for

Trains with no conductors


Distribute goods

To the

Smiling skeletons.

Who wear hats with feathers that are still very alive.

These lines that intersect.

Elementary school gallows reserved


Those who cant spell.

These lines that inspect.

Those introspective lines.

The lines that

Exist in a perpendicular,

Particular corner,

Of a world.

A forgotten apiary,

A forgotten confectionery.

 Here the few have pet polygons,

Tied to stakes

Also used to open

Empty cans,



And slay

Ancient vampires.

The few here,

Who have chosen to stay.

Who have made it in a world of

Composed of



Instruction manuals,

Whose print  is too small,

For even itself.

It’s pretentious self.

The few,

That still

Like the feeling,

The original feeling.

The state of so many unions.

The subtle warmth,


Grass, underfoot.

One thought on “Grass, underfoot

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