Chris Butler is an illiterate poet shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut.
Belly
The earth will become the oceans,
when it succumbs to the froth of the waves replacing cotton ball clouds,
where one can only swim in all directions towards the slithering glimmers of light
and submerged to plug the hole at the bottom of the sky, in a no fly ozone
surrounded by dangling tentacles with suctioning barbs and incandescent monsters.
Whales with mouths, the stomach and the appetite to swallow whole souls
only for an eternity of digestive processes that is a fisherman’s purgatory,
until I’m born again out of the propulsion of whipping fins and the waist high entrails
that one must wade through, unable to doggy paddle or stroke over tidal waves,
along with the noxious smog atmosphere of salt water and dry air,
untethered from the belly to spill me up and wipe me down
onto the salted seas of sand that stranded the last of us
on an endless palm oasis of ice water cubed in the sinking of sacrificial glaciers,
pulling us deeper away from every surface.
Carbon’s Footprints
The path of carbon’s footprints
across the beach’s sand,
still will not wash away
despite the tide’s undulating
tsunami of vengeance.
I am my own black hole…
…as an astrological waste of space, lackadaisically laying in an inflatable tube down a lazy river of darkness, making my way across an endless nothing, occasionally waving a helpless hello as the stream lures me further down the weightless torrent. But then I am pushed and pulled by forces with such gravitas that their gloriousness simply goes by “gravity”, stretching my inert inertia until my muscles suffer from the slightest strain of atrophy to rupture any rapture, until I am down-streamed up and away from one bobbing gaseous sphere and towards an impending one of dirt. All kinetic and spastic energy is then expunged and redacted, causing me to curl up into a fetal ball to collect all of the dust particles with static shock, until I snatch larger and denser objects in my porcelain drain, tightening them in my grasp until the last atom pops.
Each tongue has individual truths…
Never mind the words,
mind the meaning hiding behind the words.
And in the end…
Everyone will steal a quote from someone famous,
because they never believed in the legend of themselves.