Paper Airplanes

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
(perhaps itself)
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 TSmith 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.​

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