Blood. Nothing Really.

what i look at is useless
it’s all useless
you can find the rewind in excess
and pull enough back
so that your mind is in

we have forgotten
enough about
everything and anything
so much so that
anything and nothing
have come to replace
and in so much that
i am leaning
a preposition
where minds meet upon
a singular
I say
I say
Foghorn Leghorn wasn’t a chicken unless
that motherfucker was useless
like all chicken is
just eat it
tastes good
like it should
we all be finger lickin’
good about ourselves

and excess is progress
or regress by process
and all ties are useless
and we all find forgiveness
in a land called

and it all gets
washed away


One Comment on “Blood. Nothing Really.”

  1. ryan says:

    You do have a way with words. nice to read your poems again

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