Author: L KC

Round Coyote paws
in the snow, meandering
away from Rabbit

What if they were there
in chorus, stepping toget-
her, chasing, falling

But that is an If.
here, Rabbit will never meet
hungry Coyote

take a straw in your hand

and shove it in my eye

twist it around, around

perhaps counterclockwise

or without direction

carving a hole into

my eye, my sloppy eye

no jackknife, just a straw

how creative you are

your plastic urethra

digging itself into

my iris, my center

She cloaked herself behind the wallpaper

creeping around the room

and fattening my psychosis 

like a sponge under a faucet

expanding and absorbing 

rational thought

and mushing it into a porridge

of obsession

and the sense of a thousand faces

peering at your female body,

contorting themselves

into a collage of mockery

I want a blanket

over my head

yet my eyes must be

squeezing themselves

out of their sockets

to peer beyond

the thickets and at

those faces, those things

that denigrate me

and thus shove me towards

a freak hell that I

mustn’t tear through 

I just wish a hand

could cloak me so

or perhaps a quilt

then those vermin

faces would depart

The cricket’s hum meanders,

omnipresent in the dimness of night,

a chorus birthed from roughness

and a guild of things without vertebrae 

a sound that dances, constant,

wavering only under morning sun

~

Coiled up in a black stew,

the insect churning stands amid a mute 

concoction of the kind of  

muddyness that emerges after dusk,

hovering over cities

and brushing past streets until its repose

The soft, newborn breeze

forcing the lazy leaves to bounce about,

whistling through your pores

and stirring branches.

Dollops of whipped ice crystals

are suspended from the sky, a mobile

in God’s childhood bedroom.

A minute body heeds the weather’s tale,

fixated by its allure.

The troposphere looks ahead,

not at quilted lawns, but at a new land

with clouds coasting timelessly

toward the lisp of the ether, cascading out

of Earth and into starlight.

Autumn, second to last

on time’s turnstile,

a jamboree of warm colors stacked upon one another

in preparation for the 

insipid frost.

A moth
fluttering,
twitching,
hitting the ground,
twitching,
shaking,
jittering,
stopping.
the moth is still.

I held it above me,

but then I had to let go

and lose it all over again.