Shotsie

Long flaxen hair
lifted from the boxes of christmas
past, each bundle put on the tree
the golden strands connecting
me to my past self,
like those telephones of cups
and string, practicing telepathy.

And I found out something of great
importance from my snot-nosed self:
you see Nana had a cyclops dog
with one creepy eye that would stare at you
like one of the fates,
gasping and growling with prescience
and asthma, and I was terrified
of this omen-bringer.

but one day I put my ear close to hear
what the ancient oracle had to say,
she whispered to me in rough iron words:
"Speckled adder and ebony crow
you will walk a path where none else go,
through skeletons wet with mourning dew,
you will become what you never wanted to."

Percussive Engineering

Percussive engineering, repairing,
nice ways of saying:
"Hit it until it works"
rusted joints resolute,
set in their wicked orangey ways,
grasping, holding on to the norm,
the set way of life.

their hands grow tired with oil,
and vibration, with each peal of metal on metal
I whisper to them, telling them the futility
of holding on, the freedom of change,
but they will have none of it,
they sing back in rich vibratos:
"life is flux, but I am stone,
I will break before I bow."