What is a soul, and who
is licensed to dispense them?
My soul is not a
gravid moon nor a
supernova sunrise, although
I wonder if the sunset’s green flash
is a God fart, or, maybe,
my genesis.
My soul is not a soliloquy but a
punchline, not the sprint of
a stallion, but the stud pile in his wake.
My soul is an old shoe painted in
peanut butter by a somnambulist
on a diet, a broken toilet sprouting flowers.
My soul is an unlucky penny,
tails-up and murky, a Russian
ballet, a shaky smile behind a
shakier cigarette. My soul leaves
synesthetic stains.
Red Rover Magazine 