My computer just crashed. Let’s try to channel that anger into some magnetic poetry:

Fumbling toy of rotting fat,
soon you are dirt
that we will never miss.
Will the day come?

Now doesn’t that feel better?

Note: A mess of magnetic poetry is spread across my filing cabinet, and every so often I like to make something out of it. Here is one of those somethings.

A hot rain blazes the land
I walk above scorched concrete
almost broken after time.

A haunting stranger from the vast yellow sky
comes down like cold fire
questioning our open eyes.

Old wind breathes clean air,
but we do not drink in
and so translucent eternity looks on.