Fried

There behind the casing, a path
you do not dare to follow.

It is fate that has impressed into the dirt
all the places it has been.

When where the earth is dry it is gone,
dusted into every other moment in time.
But where it is wet and allowed to parch
the trail remains and you can follow it
back to where it began.

It is given to chasing rat tails
and following frogs flopping into ponds.

That time spent heeding…
“You will never make it across.”

Until now that it is starved and the fat rat is slow.
But, the old black rope never made it across.

Just like it was told.
It was struck straight through
the middle, crushed.
Pasted to the burning hot asphalt
by a dodging challenge to cross.

Immediately it tried to coil around itself
to pull up from the back end, its entirety.

But it failed, and will lay there frying
until it becomes fully denatured.

While above crossing the trees, its foe glides
and swoops down between each rushing conveyance.

And they will eat!
They will pick apart bit by bit by the bill.
Because they must, they will.

Chiral

That is not me
Through the mirror
From which I see
Spouting lies
And histories
None that matter
Not to me.

In reverie
I am fabled
Often wickedly
Sprouting eyes
like mysteries
A ghost blown curtain
Through which you see.

And it cycles
Its cycles.

I do not know why.