Ghost of Lowell
"the devil" he told me
beaded not unlike, in shape and number
a human cervical spine, more commonly called 'neck'.
Head hacked off via machete.
What is the tiny groping, remnants of love no longer but desperate clinging, barely audible-
more than a whisper and less than a hissing? It is the wrath of our time gone awry, possibly unintended, or even (then) anticipated. And not unlike vomit or lava, a protest from depths:
the only sound
to the dirge of
dial tone drones
There is an eternal cornerstone of vulnerability, human frailty's unrelenting landmarks-
as clear as the scars I wear on the surface of my own flesh. It may be witnessed in the
scab colored lunch between ones teeth, the piss a small child lingers in -- denies and is
consumed by simultaneously, the spittle that may accumulate around a young mothers
mouth post-electric shock, the shit that stains an orange jumpsuit clad man in some
unknown endless desert just before a blunt knife sears his throat and a barely severed
head drops to the grainy Earth with remnants of his now defunct nervous system dangling
like tendrils only partially attached. Yes that is me and if you are still reading, it is you too.