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This was the result of a prompt from a poetry class.


Iphone_pics_205by B. Torii16 Jan 2014

the line of ants are firefighters, doctors, saints.

if you turn that page, the insects living on your eyelids will come crawling out in a hailstorm, an act of revenge on your hands.

sincerely, your eyes

touch the fertile bed of maggots, they’re humming you a song.
Frank was a fisherman. Frank was on a boat. Frank was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean—
“here she comes, here she comes, take the plunge,
oh here she comes—”
this is your hands speaking, not your eyes,
tighten up so the lighthouse can see you
locked in this room, every room has four walls, contained in this boat, every ocean has two levels
hey hey the "whales in the sea, God’s voice obey" no no it is not time to say goodbye
if i stay in this room everyone will hate me i went outside,
heard petroleum-low tires:
So Debbie how was your week?
I got all my list done.
So did I.
I had a whole house to clean. (She offered me a studio
the silent kid of privilege plays president of the United States (captain of the Nautilus), some sort of damned martyr

in your line of vision: mind the mast, see the keel, care for tomorrow,
boy-child, young sailor, looks down and steps into the heavens
she, the ghost, she said she said and then you are going to the bottom, you are going
to live with the bicuspids
and pocket lint,
bendable boats, tiny seas, you reek of salt
lighthouse found you from above
drowns the pupils in light

queue of antennae looms larger and larger