Sticky Graves

We are born, raw ready for marinade, salt

pepper, lite spice. Open to cognitive

dissonance, art religion, love loss die, easy

peasy as breathing, ya right! Sure!

Then we get pounded, nearly pulverized,

beyond tender tell’ we soak up all those sticky

soft lies. We get infected with desire, swell

with want. We inhale it, low and deep. Tell’ we

Sickchoke on our grief.

The end so simple, a viscous cadaver in an

Arminie suit, a patch eyed pirate in a purple

lined ship.

We rest nest in Mother Earth to feed a dirt lined

hole, with moldy wings destined to fledge fly

toward heaven, our banana republic cloned

somewhere above.

Dan has a MS Degree. Dan lives in Northern California and is the author of three Chapbooks, Nature’s Front Door , Expectation of Stars and Ghosts in the Cupboard. Partial Credits: Aleola, Amethyst, UK., Ardent, Better Than Starbucks, California Quarterly, Chaleur Magazine, Entropy, Esthetic Apostle, Foxglove, Frogmore Journal, UK, Friday Flash Fiction, Oddball, Poetry Northwest, The Quail Bell, Skylight 47, Ireland, Spelk, Unstamatic, and Vita Brevis.

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