Ben Mirov

On the long list of names of goats

yours cannot be found. Surely

it is some kind of etude that prevents us

from achieving our aspirations.

Whether it be the dross of a thousand

underwhelming moments

or the ineptitude of the men and women

who service the machines

that power the municipal shack.

I cannot fathom the pain you feel

when confronted with your

mediocre performance report.

We are all wraiths pit against forces

we cannot define. Pass me

my anvil and thread.

This work makes me logy.



Your genocidal feelings are inappropriate.

Your face looks like a moon

that has taken all the drugs

and is wandering around the house

looking for more. The coffee table

awaits you like a bed.

Let's lie in bed all day

as clouds float over the earth.

Clouds have nothing to do with pain.

They've never felt a thing.