Eaten By Wolves, Trampled By Bison

Demons smile from refrigerator magnets.
Shoe soles cry with their sad lace faces.
Tiny chalk bodies pyred in the mailbox.
Fatbergs gorge on our regulated aches,

our wet-lipped need to keep sucking on the world,
our complexes, ass-out falsehoods-in-a-blanket,
our suppurative lesions, human itch mites, enzymes
ripe in the poolish of the boule bread.

On an empty globe, a miracle planet,
racing to find and destroy my own reflection,
a flower, having taken on the human passions,
condemned to concupiscence, void of real devotion,

is bundled and torched in a sweet potato sunset,
the season’s songs and dances, an offer to the harvest.
Beasts stain their molars with hunger for life, discard
their ugly voices, which flit against the evening.