Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 07/06/22

focusing on one thing is how the Cyclops got his start

the one who was certain the tree that fell made a sound

a bleeder with no one to punch back

never reaching the higher dimension of a straight answer

the coaster keeps sticking to the bottom of my beer

a lone split-hoofed horse cropping tufts of Timothy

smoking alone in the prewar doom of my sulfur-yellow kitchen

flattening the creased pages of The Liturgy to Nintud

this is my catechism of frozen laces

when Quixote recanted I faced the giants alone

pissing in a jar I go to bed on the sunken side of failure

©2022 Patrick Sweeney All rights reserved.

Patrick Sweeney

Bedwetter in the germline of pyromaniacs and wild foxes. Constitutionally nervous, ecologically alarmed. Heart half-buried at Stinsford. A life spent dropping imaginary pennies off the Empire State Building.

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