POST MORTEM

It's wide open here 

with no buildings, monuments, things

that dwarf artificially the coyotes lurking

in urban underbrush, 

the mountain hugging skies likes bosoms to it.

Life goes on a field trip, especially when death

transforms its light:  signals, road work, satellites 

through lands unmarked by constellations.  

When we look for God, who is on the wall

of smoke and planets: expect something 

that resembles a sea of persons, bounties

of expansive dust with faces, floating with expiry dates.  

COMPOSITION

I am irrelevant but still matter.
Everything has been said  but the thing that matters.
Hairs that scatter & shadows split
the sea of anemones whose light ascends into star splatter.

What has come to light
is an aerial web of systems unmapped,
cancers that mirror, parasites and cave dwellers,
people preying on people, the camps, the dispersed but
widely-connected broken body masters.

Among the occupations  are hedge fund operators.
On the landing strips of styrofoam islands: Mad Max
mutinies feeding the bushes.
The scarcity fears & gated neighborhoods breaking the larger poor.
But the disorders of fauna & flora bring us together.

We get to know each other, failed enemies, becoming world
we haven't written the language of yet.
These are the forever matters, religions of players 
that include feeding  each other, the not-yet deities
within each to each, these not-gods but currencies of what exists
& how to travel the pathways of lungs of fellow travelers,
the how to articulate.