Peter H. Conners

R.I.P.

1)

It is still today.

It is not yet

tomorrow. 

My saber gaze

breaks open

boulders you

dare send.

Earthen pots

tremble, implode

forget.  I do

not.  Cut my

teeth on oil.

Milk my sperm

for flesh.  This

licorice flavor

is not mine,

but mulch.

Too much mulch.

Send water -

we are thirsty.

Why are we so damn thirsty?

2)

It is still today.

We will never live

until tomorrow.  Live.

Migrating birds remember

their agony; so why

can't you?  Here

lies the lie

of abundance:

a punch in

the bread basket,

the last toast

gone cold.

Dissect & offer it

to the birds;

they will feed

their dreams,

or ignore it.

Either way:

offer it up,

to the birds.

3)

In an age without memory

regret is the only currency

of worth.

4)

In a time without worth

we knock on dead doors

with stony fists.

5)

In a fist without worth

6)

There is no first without worth

7)

There is no fist of worth

8)

Only fists - do your

homework; excel at

marauding; get a

good coffin

The Best

Satin Pillows

Double Lid

Rest In Peace

Among the greatest

worms sorrow can buy;

they grow plump -

warm pie - for birds

whose bellies,

tight on cold toast,

primly decline.

9)

Pretty costs, but

ugly is always free.

Cultivate the Hideous

The Leprous, Cankerous

& you'll never want

for Love.  Repeat it:

I serve only the

future mulch…

In one swerve

of  S  you'll

find me - armies

marching through

my thumbprint.

The Dow on decline.

I flit thru canyons,

swat pterodactyls,

match the pyre,

weep with Jesus,

relegate infinity

in time for toast

and tea.  Say it:

no ideas but

futility.  Butter

this mildew, and

feed it to

those birds…

They will not have you either.

10)

Today

I hereby accept

the title

of Champion

of Mud.