constructing the interstate

Sunday, November 23

the body was made of pure cement.
each rib glued together.
thumb tacks lining the mortar between each nerve.
the hair was the hardest to pin down.
it was wild, covering the
body's face and obscuring the leakage
pouring from the blank spaces
where manhole covers were still needed.
holes for men to climb down into
the sewage lined heart,
the shit infested wasteland constantly
dumped on by countless men before.
the hair was the problem.
it made the body seem alive.
the hair must burn.
the body must be broken down
again. jackhammered.
traffic backed up.
the body reopened with each passing semi,
questioned if there was a reason
for this destruction at all.


  1. oh my god, this is just magnificent. i agree with the person above-- "raw" is the perfect word.

    arushee // unadorned gifts

  2. your poems are turning really dark darling.dark and raw and beautiful.everything okay? xx

    dreaming is believing

  3. awesome!
    keep in touch sweetie :*
    have a great day!

  4. This reminds me of Auden's Funeral Blues for some reason. Very raw.



Thank you for your words; they light a fire in my heart. You are lovely.