SCOUT FALLER
in the realm of the living
stood between
mist and cloud
between clouding blood
and wailing grief
fury burns, all aboard
the westbound train, for a time
my uncle kept at his dying
coming around
rattling chains
American Beauty
sleek black ram
a sword to drink
blood honey
milk and wine
descent into wind
his son took
to the bedroom air
crossed into the
gates of sleep
they slapped his
purple fingers awake
isn’t that a funny
accident, upon finding his father
a request
to not resuscitate, death passed
through one into the other, one
breath passed between, i mean
wouldn’t you describe that as funny
The Paschal Lamb
Depicted without allusion is considered best
Considered finest
You’ll have to tell me
About death, and I was trying
Like a flower that casts no shadow
Like what we know about love
In its highest form of expression
2020 de-arresting a portland protestor
In winter I fight it
Violating the Judy Garland Pavilion
Can we improve on the form
Of a sacred text
In the room a big bed
Eating and being a cunt
— disappointing
You’d have done so differently
Ferried along streams of information
Liking the ass of my ex’s girlfriend
Attention is the substance of love
Grenade launcher rifle attachment
My body holds no expertise
A corrupted and imprecise recording
You state a position, I switch positions
I’ll admit I am partial to adornment
Sagebrush, vetiver and rot
Permanent Californians
––––
Scout is a Pushcart-nominated poet and recipient of the Leijia Hanrahan Scholarship for Communist Women Smokers. They are rarely bored.