i don't need god, i tell god.
i need a surgeon and money.

bedlam

my stuttering night light

they still plant flowers
in my blighted mouth

it's a hunger. it's a second stomach. grows teeth when you forget to feed it. newborn teeth, aching stomach. i didn't forget. i can't find your mouth

all night i think about god.

which means all night i think about Rothko’s black on dark sienna on purple.

which means all night i think about what Rothko’s black on dark sienna on purple has to do with god.

god, am i alone.

a demon pales in the foreground of my mind, hypnotized by inside colors.

carcass in bloom. bone in water. prayer. prayer that doesn’t look like prayer. pointing at an ache-filled moon. pointing at an ache-filled body. moon, body. singing sight to an eye balanced on god’s finger. i don’t know what else to do. long into the night i write answers for hunger. long into the night i unfold the part of me that comes when called. that sees blood and gets real selfish. i know her. i know her so well. what do you do with knowing

when I awaken
I extend my finger
towards a panel of dancing light-

did you know that its veins were torn from a mountain?

a whole hierarchy of angels
living inside the earth
were turned to transistors

so that my letters
could glow in your hands.

when I learned this
I began sleeping beside a stream,

in the places where I could watch
wires dance-

beneath wooden pillars and their flimsy black arms
whispering secrets in permanent embrace.

every night I would dream  
to the forward noise
of churning water;

of fluid drifting through the air unseen
or pouring from life long past-

terraforming
for the maintenance of symmetry.

thank god i can’t write good poetry
the best poetry comes from pain and hurt if you ask me
so although i can’t write like i used to
at least it means i’m doing alright