The Screed

To tamper with one's seal
is acceptable.
Tamper being
anything short of its erasure, up to and including all modifications
that own itself.
To tamper with another's seal
by physical or mental pressure
against the bearer's will
is not
and punishable
by erasure of the offender's seal
in absolute and for all times
and dimensions
followed by
one life sentence
served knowing
their body
is a corpse
and only
with all tools removed
to create a new seal
&
should their ability
cross boundaries of creation,
the summary removal of all
appendages, senses, and functions
that would gift them
the privilege
to do so.

Trash

Love.  That loaded word.  The sound a revolver makes.  A revolving door's  sweeps that push candy wrappers out and keep the conditioned air in.  The sound double dutch makes when the rope scrapes the ground and sneakers bite against cement to rubber sole, beating the time to jump in.  The rattle rattle of empty chamber flow and the carousel clicking toward and away from the tunnel with a primer.  A revolver.  Sitting on sun beaten iron tracks with a flattened penny, warm, in a palm and the bristle breeze breaking the silence the way a freight line might from one mile beyond the bend an eye can see.  The sound a revolver makes.  Orange moon, low and full, near the eastward hills reflected on parking lot windshields yesterday a year ago.  Squawking door hinges unfixed.  Doors scarred further, collecting efforts.  Love that loaded word.  The sound a revolver makes, heavier.  The same windshields.  The same orange moon.  It is not a breeze.  The penny is scorching hot not because of the sun.  It is a carousel.  The chambers are not empty.  The sound of shoes are running feet between ropes tiring.  The air is the same.  Sweeping cigarette butts onto the sidewalk and into the lobby.  It will be jammed by a body.  That loaded word.  Love.