By: Travis Weis
Our Rock Salt Lives and the Lady Spring
It’s arduous breathing in such coldness.
The thin serrated air slicing at your throat.
Our only defense is shallow breaths to parry the slashes.
Yet here you are, defenseless.
Hellishly sobbing in the snow and ice.
What could be so harrowing?
How could something hurt you so completely
That the tormenting winds pear of anguish
Is swallowed and forgotten as easily as the morning’s orange juice?
Were you a royal of some distant land
Banished to the plains of Minnesota falsely accused of treason and adultery?
A movie star preparing for a role?
Up and comers first lucky break after sleeping with every director they could
Just to give this torturous rendition of a live-action Frozen?
If a career is what you need may I suggest funeral crier?
I’d consider having one if I could be assured someone would cry like this for me.
Shit, I’d consider dying if I’m assured that you’d attend.
Is it possible for an individual person to be responsible for something like this?
Whoever could hold such a power is dangerous.
I would surely hope to never encounter them.
Look around, little siren reincarnate.
All the people have turned to trees at the sound of your cries.
The wind doesn’t cut them, instead whistling as it darts through their branches.
Stop crying little one.
The trees are beautiful, and the snow was melted by your tears.
Lady Spring, your work is done, now let’s go see the flowers as they bloom.
Come Hell or High Waters
Come hell or high waters
I would choose both,
I mean think about it.
The high waters might not quench the flames of hell completely,
But it certainly would give some reprieve!
Plus I’m sure hell would be a great place to surf!
The water is warm,
Waves are good and consistent.
The devil’s pitchfork could be a good spear!
Fresh fish on the beach while Elvis plays Hawaiian music,
And every writer that’s worth their salt
Is carelessly scribing their next great work
From Sysyfus’ tortured hill.
Beachfront property with every gay person that’s ever lived!
Everywhere is a nude beach. Hot springs are never far.
Hell and high waters.
Man, what a death!
The Nowhere People
The world is its own multiverse.
The above, the below, the cracks,
And the infinite burrows and boroughs
That people can disappear.
For the most part,
These entities remain unalterably divided.
It’s rare for a member of one group
To intermingle with another.
However, there’s a small group
Nameless to the public
That skates effortlessly beyond
The borders of each collective,
Seamlessly melding with high society echelons
With the same ease as the middle class.
They have been surfers, liars, cheats,
Lovers, warriors, mountaineers,
Homeless, wealthy, devout, and devoid.
That is the way of my people, and
That is the way we like it.
Things often can only be taught by the hand of a beggar,
Or an executive, and often the latter is truer.
Broken Mirrors and Hotel Lobbies
I am a bastard by choice and by birth.
The unkillable fly on the wall. A
Mistreated miscreant of my own volition, and
Coined the term. “If it ain’t broke, break it.”
I like it that way.
Not in the way of virtue
Or exchange of animosity, but
I am made of chaos and intrigue
If it was gently placed in the calmest retreat.
A contradiction of self.
Amnesty arduously actuated.
A false truth
Falling from unbroken lips.
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