I don’t know how to do this
without making those excuses
for the parts I leave neglected
just to set aside some time
to be alive.
They kept a rusty shotgun
up on their wall it was
their favorite weapon
in an ever growing arsenal.
There is an antenna attached
to their house which holds
the lightning back like
everything is out there
always waiting to attack.
I read the back of every book
I buy before I know if it is something
I can spend the time decoding
with my blinking eyes so dry
from all the ink I drink
in spirals just by following
the endless spreading lines.
Wild cows travel in herds out
in the pasture until they happen
on a patch of different flowers.
Upon grazing there they have
a magical reaction to the plant life
making wings burst from their backs
in bloody madness.
They remain too heavy to fly
but all the people driving by
look out their windows,
and as the day goes on
the flies get in their feathers
turning the angel arms to nests
of writhing swarms.
They put them down at dark
with just a lantern, gun,
and bag of ancient ammo.
They let the grass grow
with their bodies as the power source
and did not try to bury what was
eaten up by something
so miraculous it never
should have happened.
Teleporting Typewriter 