Hate Like.

Heartburn in your stomach.

Organic lattices grinding in circles

Against

Flesh that sparkled

Yesterday.

A temper,

An attitude

You can only halfway give up on.

Bad breath

And some stagnant sort of pall in the room

That won’t be ignored.

A waistband too tight.

A face furiously plain and

Red deserts along her cheekbones.

Tears trickle from complacent yesterdays

When this goddamn biosphere

Was toxically controlled;

When depression was a blind man’s game,

A hamster’s game

And ducks were able to form lines with their bodies.

A nagging sensation of no one

Evolves into cloudy, over-dreamt  

Tsunamis.

Wishes

In Middle America

Die two feet from the front door

And paint peels too quickly.