Lizard on the Rock

the lizard sleeps behind glass
with flies dotting his rock kingdom,
who also lick lips like he does,
though he does it to taste your
essence, the air into which we
are expiring slowly, like an open can
of gasoline—
our dying is tasty to him—
no, our essence; he cannot be morbid,
or lazy as some misattribute him as being,
he is merely acting out his own divinely
programmed essence, though a solid one,
not gaseous, not etheric like our essences, and
always expiring for happenstance reptiles to
lick and taste—“Where are you going, pretty
thing, gorgeous bubby baby on the rock?”
“I’m staying right here, until this rock and I
are one—where are you going?”
I am going where stray zoo balloons go, into
time, into aether, into air.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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