Typewriter’s Last Words

Please don’t leave me now
that you’ve seen the future.

My ink is real and you can touch
my paper with your hand holding

words, the ones pressed by my metal.
Permanent black rune, my tattooed

sentences offer so much more than
the screen, where mistakes disappear.

Delete, delete, delete-so easy to
forget all the missteps and time taken

to roll sheet after sheet. But each
letter, each tap, was your imprinted

mind. Go to the computer, but this
crumpled beauty, you will never find.

Girl Reads Civil War Poem

This poem is called Maggots,
Samantha stands in front of the

classroom with a sly smile. Her
piece inspired by historic conflict,

skips Gettysburg, Antietam, and
all the words of war. No rebel yell,

or regiments, she leaves nurse
descriptions and widow tears for

other poems to divulge. Starts
at the end, she speaks her black

beginning, maggots chewing,
spewing flesh of men without faces,

corpses all in their places for the feast.
She maintains throughout, that nature

intended such death, that it was all
meant to be. Not for North or South,

but for the legless larva to probe
darkness, with their bloody glee.

Thomas Edison Prays

I read somewhere
Thomas Edison had
a thinking bench
upstairs alone in
that room he
just sat and
thought and thought
and sat, sometimes
he would find
ideas and sometimes
they found him
because he was
waiting and not
really doing much
of anything, kind
of praying to
silence that something
would arrive and
if he sat
long enough and
was very quiet
something always did