Coinkydink Simulacra

At the Center For Questionable Thought
we waited on a delivery,

while waiting we chatted, talked,

watched the sun go down over the
fields outside the windows,

it bleached the air with some sort of electricity
that was orange

and it excited us and the insects out in the fields too.

We drank a couple beers, held their tastes,
smelled the smell of the old place,

I do recall a smell of dank linoleum.

We also did a bunch of filing of papers and organizing
all the boxes by their months and years.

We waited for the deliveries
and were congenial with each other as we did,

as we were inside that structure.

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

Off The Farm

When I am old,
hysterical and worn out,
running from the farm,

just shoot me in the head.

Don’t let me get off the farm.

When you’re done with the shooting of me
in the head
shoot me in the throat
to stop my soul.

Have a dinner for me that night,
back on the farm,
with red wine, root vegetables
and some type of roasted pheasant.

Don’t let me get off the farm,
even if you have to throw rocks
on my chest
to keep the gravity held down and balanced.
Don’t let me get off the farm.

The gravity and the farm are old friends,
synonymous in a way with each other.

Gravity’s high-volume generation farm
exists in the asteroid fields just beyond Mars.

DO
NOT
LET ME
GET THAT FAR
in the symbolism of intellectualism.