Silent as the voice is silent

No state to come out to/of.

The death of American literature

Like filaments among the suds.

Lost like bass whining

Triple threats across a drum.

No static mulch to desensitize

No fluid embrace from those not present

In another timeline

Across distant whispers

A space was made and was foretold

A predication for the unlearned

A prediction dreamed, perhaps hoped.

Staring out a vast the see of book people

And people poems

And lost verses

The promise was not kept

Tho that promise still be made

The sliding of time like flesh in flesh

Causes follicles to rise, skin to tense.

A withered nothing dream.

A fragrant possibility.

Lost in this nonsense

You call writing.

You know it’s not

It is for naught.

The jackals are hungry

And must be fed

For they themselves could never feed,

Never nourish the need inside them .

A gaping hole

A hole gaped

An entrance to their lack of heart

And lack of soul

Abusing aesthetics with much displeasure

They slowly wait impatiently

For a voice to come again

—

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“Hot Soak, Chardonnay” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.