the fine art of dying well, a poem

tv's not working.
damnit.

[Untitled]

Denyer's

a bankteller.
Hopscotch player
and .38 bedwetter

(He swallows).

Furthermore,
His middle name
appears blurred on
his ID,
but still uses it
to impress older
single sapiens
of macroorgasmics
capabilities and/or
innocent bystanders.


--L. Chávez Miranda
has more here

Concerning Angels

The following is a piece from the think
tank of Michael Stewart. More of Stewart's
work can be found here


They are terrible with their unused teeth, sharp and small
like a child's, and their new skin. The navel-less bellies.

Of halos I am uncertain. Perhaps they shimmer in their
magnitude, but this myth of wings is ridiculous and
unnecessary. They are light enough to be carried on the
least of things, being merely the breath of God, made in
His mouth and emerging from His lips thin and improbable.

When we meet them in our trailers and used bookstores they
bring only proof of our neglect. They make evident our
unclean teeth, our petty shifting, the horrible movements
of our tongues.

They are full and we are not. They give no place to enter.
The force of their voice is such as to not admit another
tongue in their mouths. Their other lips when parted lead
nowhere.
                                    

                                        --Michael Stewart