He Thinks He’s an Artist

The cool walk of rain
across the field
with its countless feet
blue buzz reciprocal blade
whining shriek as it cuts
floor boards
water and blood in wooden boxes
tung oil smooth sealed
paper umbrella
sways over
departing figure
from farmhouse
no one sees or knows
the effort involved
the weight of the body
so many pieces
neatly disposed

This fractured bit of macabre for @dVersePoets Open Link Night. Posting there at 2 p.m. CDT.

A condensed, clearer variant, or at least one interpretation:

artists, ghouls,
shoot poses
of the dead
they rearrange,
sometimes reassemble.


An Early Poem

Wrote this when I was 18 or 19.

Still can’t decide if it is tolerable or just bad, but it is March, so I post it.

View from the Third Floor

Under the gray awning of a late March sky,
The grass grows green and knows not why
While people tucked in plastic sleeves
Glide fast upon the walk—fitful streams.

Brightly colored umbrellas sway—
Hide bobbing heads and torsos.
Voices echo soft between
The aged buildings of the green.