Miri

We scratch nails.
Peel paint.
And suddenly we can cleanse ourselves.
Suddenly we have power.
If only everything peeled off.
Dry skin.
Potatoes.
The plastic covers on books.
On shoelaces.
And everything else that matters.
For that's all she does.
Bites lips.
And winces.

Living Off The Living

...off-putting information political dimensions of British Romantic-era Trollope's notoriously vitriolic weirdness of Americans slightly unfavorable ritualized sameness anticipates complaints about the same offense evident with hindsight engulfed in an infernal hell...

waves come crashing at my feet
shake wind and webs and veneers
even flooded lands dry
leaving cracks
like gashes on a withered, wrinkled homeland
too old to keep me
i want to stay
but i cannot swim
i cannot stay afloat
so i throw away plastic armour
build my own webs
and climb onto another's back
spurring them on
i shut my eyes
and hope their shells are waterproof
or can be blow-dried