Poetry from Chris Butler

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet shouting from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. 


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.