jesus rose from the dead the other day

and I think that deserves a new poem:

The Nopar King

hauls any kind junk up the precipices and down the switchbacks. The mountainous numeral of his kingdom, bigger than two
living whales. Two living whales. The tall grass tries to jump out of fear of or maybe reverence to the king, but roots don’t
like the taste of air so it just looks wind-whipped. He never notices. If it were actually windy grit would swirl mouthwards
and he’d catch a taste of dirt. Enough to make a body remember. The trepid minions quarry chunks of refuge from hydrants
and mailboxes. What they don’t realize is how blue the king is sans queen. He compensates. Tiny lachrymose sighs.
Painting his name redly all over his dominion.


I like how the lines broke in my blogger window...
Hoping it breaks that way for you, too.

New tattoo. It's a big one. Don't tell mom.