nuclear semiotics

my wood grain brain 

my grey matter mind 

my loose liquid innards 

countless cells counting time 

my entropic envy of concrete 

or plastics or ancient stained glasses

there’s an infinity of things not living to see 

there’s an absence of life in fields of green grasses

cause it lives, it dies, it grows, it goes 

from place to place on the backs of crows 

the cycle that bees make beautiful 

the kingdom of life, of moss and mold 

everything that’s ever been born eventually grows old 

so i sometimes wish i wasn’t ever born. 

existing as a rebar beam, a monolith of nothing 

that simple feeble fleeting little people

could endlessly apply their own meaning too

because if i wasn’t born i wouldn’t be seeking to 

be a thing not living. not fleeting.

not ephemeral, not needing my daydreaming 

of when the sun explodes, because

this place, is not a place of honor 

and if i was concrete with rebar bones 

there’d be nuclear waste eroding that corrodes 

underneath me, in peoples homes

all the creatures creating meaning

in their wood grain brains 

and grey matter minds 

wishing for time, dreaming of leaving

they’d be left to write the poems