The Sounds of the Rotating Earth

Eric Simpson

No bitterness, no root of fear,
no complaint.    Providence is a fickle girl
who steals my shoes.      Take
what you need, unweed the weed,

seek, ask, nod your head     in unison
in agreement with the traffic  on
Interstate-10.  Blank your verse,
uncurse your curse.    Bleed

a little gas from your     noetic tank.
In reverse you unlove love   break
moods with a terse    heart,  a
chameleon face  to erase and     erase.

No More Personal Pronouns

Eric Simpson

When I die I will be buried with words
Instead of dirt. In a grave of verbs
I'll obfuscate the light of my own death.
You have been a noun so long, so thin,
So abstracted from the ground,

I am split in two when you move
To touch me you come maybe afraid,
I think you are dying too, like me,
When you see the relativity of age
We are caught between then and when.