“Nemo dat quod non habet”
— or so says a hollow voice,
ergo the scarecrow falls.
And round breasts of soy milk,
the younglings dance,
which nourish words as hard as rocks.
And like a quote from pretentious lips
mosquitoes of filth take flight to hair’s height
in a cloud of manifested delight.
“Lord of Lords,” cries the dark to no one at all
while leaves of cellular-tea fill a dirty cup.
Enter walking: mechanical ghosts
who only speak in unwritten lines
to all the hands raised up high.
You are a dropped-fifth flat
and mayhap we are the ninth,
and wind the ground of us both.
– Michael T. Smith
Michael T. Smith is an Assistant Professor of the Polytechnic Institute at Purdue University, where he received his PhD in English. He teaches cross-disciplinary courses that blend humanities with other areas. He has published over 75 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 40 different journals. He loves to travel.