There is a world of
space between the things we feel
and the words we write.
He went to the lake
to live deliberately, but
instead found a lake.
The only real place
where the act of reading can
actually kill you.
Everyone says they
want the best piece, but don’t want
the rest. What is wrong?
I hear the bulldozer getting louder as I swat the grass out of my ear,
scratching my leg with my other leg
and wonder if the world is about to end.
Is my best friend who is really an alien going to save me,
pull me up out of the grass and mud and tell me the end is neigh?
Would I care?
I feel the vibrations in the ground travel through my entire body and wish I hadn’t worn green.
Maybe I blend in too well with the grass,
maybe the bulldozer can’t see me,
Or maybe I’m doing the usual blending-into-the-world I do every day,
the sort of blending that gets your toes stepped on,
every coffee you’ve ever ordered,
and renders your voice inaudible over the screams of everyone’s egos,
everyone’s holy opinions.
The bulldozer is in my ear
and I stay still.