Lyophilizing Algae

It's cold here. The air is heavy carrying charred scent.
It's quiet too. The man has stopped mowing the lawn now.

Dispersion shackles my eyes, while the dried paint has 
peeled another layer off with the rest. The sweetness
crusted in a corner of noise. A window closed to keep
out the wind with the charred scent and chilled draft.

The trick is to never talk to god, to never say, "Hey,
God," because the see-saw comes crashing down to fast
and eats you alive with handle bar jaw and splintered
teeth. The little turtles painted on the planks start
walking in circles to your head and arrange the blues 
and the pinks and the indigos and greens. Armies pose 
for a shot before brain eating times have been chimed.

That is the way it will happen and has happened before.
Index