Unrelated Thoughts

Poems that are not in The End of the Word as We Know It, by Wes Unruh

Temperate Climate

i weary these harsh mornings
when breath comes ragged
and slow, national, draft…

if torn by age, ravaged
sublime from secret places
the blanket of flesh
wrapped slyly, drawn

and asleep, the legs
my hand, a finger pins
and cold, the circulation
air isn’t the same here

cloud front, a flood
burnt umber, a harvest
and threshing, fields
alighted, post chattel
environment, we given rights

(my motherfuckers are silent
but they got my back
in this temperate climate)

wake the fuck up I slap my skin
and grimace, the flesh is morbid
a roadmap
and I am fevers, sores, lesions
and threshing, dead leather,
a few coins lost in transit

don’t have the desire left
to be a machine, these things
take time, have meaning
truth movement
couldn’t speak sanctions forced this gag, restraint
the officials lien, official line
occlusion: officially lying moderates


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