White Lands of Empathica

Two shapes swirling
as a noise crackles
sparks from a green
Bic lighter the sky
blooms with fireworks
and clouds die in
falling ashes.

I hold a cigarette
between my toes
and fondle my positive
anonymity.

These lands are bare
-ly still, but moving--
commas in the desert.

sidewinders spiral
scaly shapes of the dune.
His fingers spiral
silver metal apostrophe
T's.

He covers the hollow of his
lungs with
colorful tar. These
are the magnetic tarpits.
Sitting in a rock-chair
as he laughs at the mutable.
As he laughs
because he was taught to
laugh at things he thought
funny.
This man is a thief-- nevermind
the hands-- his forked tongue
shoves lightning into
this muted bath, as all things alive
awaken.

Two forces coalesce in agreement.
Schematics are drawn, learned, lined.
This wiry man
has been here longer than
himself.

The mutie falters, exceedingly
at his laughter; tucks his
knuckles into his eyesockets.

Red Red Red Bloodshot Pink

The hyena man circles
the white
in the young man's eyes:
The color drains from his
knuckles, cheeks, eyes, and
soul
into that sparkling-black
laughter.

He is reduced to a
dripping, mopped up
obsoletion-- which school,
it does not matter.
Because it is what it is.

There are the white lands of
Empathica,
and there is a bedlam
of geometric shape still
hawking this land.
Like birds of prey.
Like owls blocking this
ten-year
old
graying
moon.

movement between
them both,
in this electrical haze
Death
is not
a word.