by Maxwell Redder

But Little Blips

I.

Seeping from my brain
like sap from a pine,
slowly building into a sticky clump.
I clean the wax from my ear
and ponder is it formed from wasted
energy of my pale thoughts —
never written on paper —
the ones but little blips,
like rain particles
lost in a cloud.

II.

A ray, like a translucent slate,
brightening wide path.
The old paintings of white
Jesus floating on sunbursts.
Trembling shadows under wrath.

III.

We argued about the humor
of death — or is it merely
absurd?  Or, is it on the
level of ice or rubble:
things that exist and change
into something new under
a different force?
Or, maybe I just laugh
because it looks like rain
is building over
the melting horizon.

 

Keep Blue Sacred

I.

Let us laugh with all the dead
for being free.  Let us laugh that their flesh
decomposes into the freshest soil.
Let us laugh that perfect soil is a mixture
of death and worms, grubs,
metallic-green coated beetles
who wait underground
ready to die like scholars in a library,
skipping the burial step.

II.

Kale, collards, beets, and chards.
Veggies grow best in a gorgeous
mixture of death soil.  Let us keep blue
sacred for the sky and a wedding gift.
The sky: inverse burial.  The sky:
acclaimed condos for good souls.

III.

The softest dandelion seed
blown on a blusterous day
nestled herself between a few blades,
linked in with mud and water
and begun life.