RYAN TWAT SUCKER

by RC Miller

We snarl our own immensity.
Things pass away into wolves who only function.
We go through old age then death again.
This in truth be dat.
And though resting luxuriously in the park, he feels sad
About his unwisdom, feels bad about spilling oxygen.
Two hills forward, a plastic water bottle is sharpened
By the falcon's shadow.
Two hills upward, she laughs when its feathers
Fall upon her string bikini bottom.
There's light never born, outside all, deeply quiet
Like the breath of a helicopter's wing.
Two hills becoming, she enriches his posture
And animalistic zing.
Hope is beyond sorrow, hope is beyond what's free.
Go ahead and die for me.


*RC's blog: http://visionblues.blogspot.com/