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William Erickson

Updated: Feb 2, 2022

Inventions Pt 91


I invent a machine

that grows flowers

for funerals.


You flip the switch.

No one survives.


You try to flip it back,

but it's stuck, bloom

after bloom. A god

rippling through a cosmos.


It is how we all started

praying to you.

 

Inventions Pt 87


I invent a way to hold hands

with everyone you love all at once.


The pressure's too much.

The pressure's too much.


When it's on, you're crushed

endlessly in a tragic laughing

accident.

 

Six or So Inches from My Chest


You notice how the dark

makes you invisible to yourself.

Six inches or so is the distance

from your hand to your chest

but there's no way to find it.

You touch and touch

and nothing.


Funny, how there's so much

to lose inside of your skin.


You peel it away and

everything escapes.


You look out for a moment

and forget the way back.

 

William Erickson took degrees in English and digital arts from Washington State University after many years in the trades. His poetry can be found in BlazeVOX Journal, The Adirondack Review, 34th Parallel Mag, and numerous others. He lives in the Portland area with his wife and two rescue dogs.

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