Erik Wilson

I am 1925.
I am John Scopes.
You keep throwing books in the fire.
I'd like you to stop.
...

Old woman waits in sullen sinking silence
Evening wraps cruel arms about her emaciated body
Her hair wires about in a fearful frenzy
She stares with crushed confusion
...

Gash nuisance reverberates;

pulsing under textured beige bandages
...

Chopping and munching on plump letters for sweet honey poems.

Writer stewing and with monk hood he guards and brews
...

Enclosed lipstick opal vanities whisper pockets of illegal fairy gospel truths.
Wander seeking the principles of nature that give nature its course.

I take that course. Every solstice and bloom of red blood rose.
...

A shop built upon wise earnest bricks.
Drifts of romantic pianos cause a snowy, chilled draft of beware! bewitched past.
Opening the grandfatherly door to a paternal ding—
Of brass bells-
...

If I could cross over to your mind-

Tell me what I would find?
...

The idea is there
I can't seem to understand-to encircle or wrap or warp the way it digs
It jives in front
of me and mocks my inner bird.
...