Poetry by Thomas Osatchoff
I remember once ordering a man to dig his own grave.
It was raining. He was so thirsty. I gave him no water.
I made him wear a hood and visor. When I realized it wasn't enough,
I made him pay for a gas mask I made him wear. I would not let him remove it.
When it was deep enough for him to lie down….That was it. Boom.
So it isn't. The sound of too late. Springs over and over. Fall before winter.
Sandcastle under autumn's knees. Lost it again in synonyms stapled to images.
Videos removed like the colors of leaves. Try to keep them pressed between pages
in books in disuse. Coming back. Creeping up to the mouth when its cave is a halo
slipping crowns around necks like steel nooses. What are we? Nothing but ingot.
Nosecone of the rocket going up to offer minimum aerodynamic drag.
It's good to see you, the streamer says to the live audience. You make me feel good.
Unlike all those social structures and hierarchy that if you can get out of
you should get out of. But yeah, if you're interested in my Premium….
Will I vote? Yeah, I'll vote. Why? Because….Will I get up in arms about it?
My political alignment is me or us. Pretty much. I like people. And living things.
If it involves diminishing the violence against bodies that can feel—I'm for it.
Would prefer freedom cells but this design covers the eyes and other vulnerable
soft tissues such as the whole of the baby. Innocent unlike billionaires
I'd want thrown out of their houses like bad ballots. Not hurt. Just thrown out. If
the biggest house of them all wasn't this house I'm live streaming from right now.
I like people. If it wasn't for this live stream
I would stay away (to protect us) from this network between us
bringing us—together? I like people. That's what it's about. It's a complicated thing.
Maybe I will vote or maybe I won't. So says the voice in the poem. Gravesite.
Voting in that other world? Give a shred of legitimacy to such lengthening criminality?