Here

Warmerica,

no ills lose,

damn be king rock,

rot is fare-

Cup a dog gut on them.

She run so damp,

hems up,

he’s home,

sand and dust,

his body's not for suits,

a limb,

a toe,

croak for the guards,

lie naked,

lost,

ether.

Our sun damned set airs the dead.

Ever we go,

deep,

in a bag on the floor,

(you can get used to almost anything.)

Others waste,

thoughts pelt,

red and quiet.

Aged ordeal,

a day be pain,

and come,

omen men,

these wings end here,

win,

rest,

earning none,

bent ogre,

pale veteran,

What merit are stains?

Mold of my eyes,

No thing balm.

Tithe,

donate,

milk the self,

men here want death,

leper,

old one,

blank starer.

I’m home,

these tuxedo bred rich sad sour hats,

the moth’s inferno is hot salt on them,

but still they stand.

Achers look to the sky,

toughers sit,

honeybees tend.

Never ones to side,

“Mother West’ll

pound the fiends,

yer safe,”

wasters rant.

Duel dances,

Tar lip piety,

At end sins cut and the myth thirsts,

yet idle nap the sons we lack,

Bury another soon,

On dead palms are angels paint.

Ever will storm east the west,

“Yes,” scolds singer’s siren.

Here,

prey to madman’s theft,

she let one in.

Men suave,

hen to the rook,

torn heart,

we lost all.

Dead rest,

here,

in a pit of war.

Erasure poetry begins with removing letters and words from an existing text in order to create a new stand-alone piece that provides new meaning to the original passage. For the 3nd Annual Geist Erasure Poetry Contest, we posted an excerpt from a prose poem, Cottonopolis, by Rachel Lebowitz.