Shutting. The fuck. Down.
'Cept contemporary-like. Not
scaly “'this' big!” nightmare/
nor more densely fletched
plantigrade forebears. Just me.
In a car. Zoom out x2. High over
winter miles. Corundum-plated
titanoboa glows red/steams
and steams/glows red. And I,
such an unsatisfying meal
the serpent slips forth every
morning and back as day darks.
I'm eaten asleep. Gone stay asleep
till flesh turns dirt. Wrong or
ignorant or (if lucky) perhaps right,
asking yourself as you hit, How
many hours did you get last night?
Finger the code, dial up 6:00am,
swallow juice and devices.
You come a set of leading
indicators. No bleeps or bloops.
Just indexes and thresholds,
supply chains, T-shirts and hats.
One image composed of images
of when, try or not, dying's done.
When we've become the blood
of a snake whose eyes and tail
are the morning and the night
to assholes who say shit like that
just the same as to those who don't.
It don't matter if you see it strike.
D.J. Parris has had recent work in Abridged, The Noble Gas Quarterly and Queen Mob's Tea House. He lives in Aldie, VA with his wife and son.
Sexual Assault Survivor
HYDRA RING PINE LAND FIELD
Lori Anderson Moseman
Math 345: Geometry of Solids
A Naive Festive
Robot #15 (ornithology)