My soul lays homeless,
laid out for sheep
to trample and graze.
I'm only vapors of a girl
who once was scribbled
on the bridge of life's nose.
Without vowels
and constants,
the ground is nameless.
I walk aimlessly
among clumps of
flesh, eyeballs, slabs of meat
grotesquely topped
with hair roots
and toenails.
Every moment
the book lays closed,
the pen stays still,
equals the blend of a
reality that has no indicators.
The world is as uniformed
as water, some parts
cleaner than others,
my eyes housed in the murkier
parts, lips moving soundlessly
against the tide of
the United States of land-filled
discontent, waiting
for the ink to blot.