Swarm my olive visage,
buzz from ear to ear,
dance to the thump-thump
of blood behind veiny temples.
Carry my vascularity into the time warp,
make me spiral out of reality.
I descend this staircase rife with blood loss,
forget about physicality-mentality-finality,
become a forager of the in-between.
Listen: the buzz of parasites,
soul-suckers, cacophonizers of the void:
One, two, wingbeat. One, two, wingbeat.
In this upside-down,
I float above grandfather clocks, white picket fences,
baby-faced humanity: no future for me.
Bugs consume the carcass of materiality,
vomit nothingness over my brown molt.
Let’s rebuild signification.
Dani Putney (they/them) is a queer, non-binary, Asian American poet exploring the West. Their poetry most recently appears or is forthcoming in Juke Joint Magazine, Lockjaw Magazine, Mojave Heart Review, and Sons and Daughters, among other publications. Presently, they're infiltrating a small conservative town in the middle of the Nevada desert.