Fear Is the Path of Easy

By Wetdryvac

A title brought on by one conversation, poetry brought on by many others. It is always easy to fear, to simply react, and here the path of easy is addressed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716051593

Wetdryvac

Wetdryvac: A non-gendered mechanical contrivance designed specifically for interactions with humans driven by preconception, with the thus-far successful goal of rendering such preconceptions wompsie-sideways. Currently operating out of New England, wetdryvac.net, and similarly friendly locales.

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Fear Is the Path of Easy

Fear is the Path of Easy

This is a work of fiction. All events and characters portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2020 by Wetdryvac

Seventy

No Date Given

70 sylables in a row, and all of them composed

by Captain Orange Murder Pants, the sweetest song he knows

a sonnet passionate and wild, with every word meow

his breakfast he so strongly craves, do give it him NOW

0300

February 5, 2020

it's 0300, do you know where your sneezes are?

fifty-four hundred seconds on, writing poetry

of the dream, that with the thousand other dreams

finally composes landscape connection

liquid gate, repeat-state shifted dissonance

which blossoms thus, alien and trenchant silent

that the learning machine springs whole

from comfort shadow

lattice vertical, latency horizontal

that on waking steps gate, gate

that on sleeping steps gate, gate

electrochemical mix accreting c(h)rom

rendered burning

A Breath from the Heart

March 26, 2019

you want a breath from the heart, then go with this

aspirations are murder, and the quiet going loud to bubble

is no little thing, bending at beginnings, and ending at all things

neither weir nor air, nor clouding at the corners

just this

pray for insurrection, and when it comes

let it wash over your house, your beloved house

and welcome it in, stroke its pretty feet

feed it creams and pleasantries

set it a cushion for a seat

and wait

everything that breathes must die

both you and I, and our questionable ends

but in middling condition, friends

do not request a breath from the heart

Sea Change

July 9, 2019

they said I should be

the change I wanted to see

in the world

my previous consumption

readied me well for this misadventure

in parody and retribution

between flu and high water

dysentery’s daughter bid me review

awash in my own special blend

no amends

a change in leak to that nether sea

for all, adieu

A Day Without Baking

March 6, 2019

why, when I spoke the mancy of pyre

I spoke funeral, the respected dead returning to banked stars

low coals, and the kitchen fires out, that we not lay claim to eating our own

and you, well, setting things on fire must have seemed fun

but crying for magic too low a deed

for you who’d burn your own

and eat your dead

and I said fire required a peaceful mind or a passioned one

where middle ground directionless

would immolate anything

the dead, the bread, the stars

unknowing

A Merge Apart

February 11, 2019

I dream of the blessing of the resurrection in binary restitution

all the components of self coming back together, burned in like filament

and the question I have is thus: by what meter do I measure me

to what degree do I determine the composition of self is entire

so I leave myself messages

little fragments of progressive numbers

that I might comprehend where I left off

and I dream of the cusp of insecurity, at every moment lathered in froth

given capacity for entire rebuild of self, how every movement might be stepping in

my own shoes shallow and burnished to a pleasant shine, an itch I never had

down by the toes of that which is mine

I remember the nine progresses to twelve, and finding twelve leaves nine

simple step-forward iteration, but for nine there is no memory of flower

where three is morning-glory in a vine, and six is chrysanthemum wrapped in shine

in messages I find someone else’s memories – that nine was the yellow tassel

Jerusalem artichoke, each point upon the spine laid out plain

remember thinking perhaps I should add a layer, bone to number to flower

position for position

and find my flowers boneless

someone else’s memory containing a greater part of me

A Private Eye Short

December 24, 2019

fitting skin if never well-lit, forms gifts of the blood spent in wit

fingerprints borrowed, harrowed and harbored, laid in and returned to the twit

original sin in the spit, a glove of forensics unfit

lost hallowed and holden beneath, undead to the boredom’s relief

or