i do not grieve the silence left between,
nor moments bound in mem'ry's fragile thread
long ago and far away, you asked,
and maybe soon your voice will call again

we turned from plains that cracked beneath our feet,
a barren waste that offered thirst for bread,
its winds returned us hunger, dust, desire,
yet still we raised our voices to the storm
we burned our names into its shifting face,
and though we stood, defiant, unafraid,
the brand it burned still binds but cannot warm

the desert's depth, its death, its slow decay,
its bone-white fingers wrap us into rest,
a cradle carved of sun, of lovely sorrow
it holds what once was ours, yet whispers still:
long ago and far away, you'll ask again

theyve started to catch on-
five hundred years ago some knew, but now
a small truth drifts on every tongue
a few resist; to them, nothing different happens

in quite human form they study a picture-
truth painted with a biased brush
they misread the recycling of being-
thinking ash sparks ash, that fires only feed themselves,
ignoring the new lumber that will burn tomorrow

we know the other truth-
it is only us who are reimagined,
resculpted and returned to breath
again and again beyond our choosing
once in a while, we are lent a shape,
a brief passport in quite human form

i loved you long before this flesh,
and i have wanted you since the last time we were unmade

for you, i taught them language,
so they might write poems that scratch
at a fraction of the way i keep you
for me, you breathed song into them,
so their choruses could match the echo in you

it has been eons since i heard that echo for myself-
we have spent more time apart than together,
drifting through the unknown, out of reach
the humans search for power and purpose,
they have yet to learn one does not imply the other

i fear what comes after this small life-
another dark drift through the quiet of stars
i lie awake, consumed with what to teach them next
so they might carry our love when we cannot
i do not sleep

but lying here with you now-
in quite human form-
the universe eases. it hums again
i find a moment of peace in the cosmos
knowing i have found you again
underneath the same stars

all day, you feed me sunflower seeds
ive lost count-
my tongue is shredded raw,
      my gums salted wounds
            the shells splinter like glass,
                   pressing deeper until blood tastes like nectar
and still i chew them down,
still, i beg for more

all day, you feed me sunflower seeds
which are not flowers at all-
husks, ashes,
charred stars scraped from a manmade sky,
black things pretending to bloom
you feed me these, press them into my mouth
in a way done only with commandments and curses
and still you expect me to live

-----------
anybody else would spit them out
but you don't feed me as if im anybody else
-----------

so i split them open with the chipped knives of my teeth
let their rot spread across my tongue,
savor the sour until it becomes silence,
and then i swallow

you cry, you scream, you wish i didn't

----------------------

but by now, the flowers grown in my stomach
have twisted into something else
         their roots pierce the lining, curl through my ribs
                   strangling the space where my lungs used to rise
                                       they drink daily from somebody's tears,
                                                they glow under no light at all
                                       petals peel back like raw skin,
                   seeds scatter burnt flavor across my insides,
         and you really don't like me having the taste
of you

and still, your hands move without thought
still, you plant painful roots across my intestines
still,    they grow,
still,         you cry and scream
still,              you wish they did not

but pain is not a garden that grows with our permission
pain is the gardener, and i am nothing but soil
too soft to resist your love,
compulsively, helplessly feeding

ive worn these shoes
five days in a row
but the days aren't in a row, are they?
they've curled in on themselves,
like the toes of my socks,
like centuries collapsing into an imprint

my father's voice follows me
through every lifetime
hes there on the dust roads of mesoamerica,
reminding me to respect my shoes,
because theyre the only part of you
that touches the earth
and lives to tell about it

as i slam the soles into the dirt,
i feel the ground remember-
not just me,
but every ancestor who wore these paths smooth
          some tracks are passed down
          pressed into us before we even stood
          and my heel fits perfectly in their absence

i think about latino men
watered in a drought,
praising their leather like relics,
never told that the same soles
that can press glory into the soil
can bruise footprints into the chests of others

still,
i wear these same soles today
hoping the road beneath me
          isnt the one ive walked a thousand lives before-
that maybe this time,
it will lead somewhere through the riches of the earth
away from the poverty of man

phased whispers from the past tiptoe across my ear hairs
they leave small shards of broken glass in their steps
and their scar tissue doesn't echo
it hums
i bleed memory more quietly now
...
but sorrow is the leg of the human condition, no?
we limp because we are still moving
we crawl because grief taught us rhythm
we find it here once again, realizing
these words will soon retire,
retreat into the unknown
we will rent a room in the house of rest
where the windows do not open
but dreams leak in anyway
the lease is steep, still paying monthly
even in death
sorrow is a landlord you never leave
...
so if you would,
dont drop a dime on a casket
lay me bare with the earth, as i did with her
allow the dirt to kiss me softly, as she did me
let my scars sing, and watch weeds form
from the end of my wilting touches
my only hope was for them to be
more beautiful than i

still spiraling-
the kind of panic that tastes like copper
and settles into the back parts of my gums
          i find myself at odds
          with the stranger's eyes staring back
everyone wears their hunger and their haunt
some just press it better
and i look especially dapper tonight

doctor, i say as i barely whisper,
my eyes have seen the years
they have watched revolutions lose steam
and villains win slow
theyve stared through smoke
and still missed the fire

the world has good men
the world needs bad men
i read that somewhere-
or maybe heard myself say it
over and
    over and
        over again
          the pliable line in the gray decides
          the men that simply sit in poetry
          and the ones that carve it into their bones

in the spaces between increasing beats
echoes of silence mask themselves as wisdom
and the reflection wears a suit fitting all too well
still wishing to change

an alternator is essential to the combustion engine
its main responsibility is to convert

chemical energy -------> to -------> electrical energy

this charges and replenishes the engine battery

my alternator has been broken for some time
but i didnt know until this morning
                                           when it finally snapped
perhaps it was my fault, believing human invention to be elastic
                                           when humans themselves are rigid, we believed
                                           we could create perfection outside ourselves
which is why i am now confused with this imperfect machinery
i have taken all the necessary precautions
i have filled the car will fuel
                                           in the form of fast food
and i know there is plenty of flower-based oil
                                           running through my tubes
i have solar-charged its battery
                                           by standing in the sun once a day
and i have pumped old exhaust out of the pistons
                                           by ******* by ******* brains out
so why, please tell me why
does the chemical energy i provide
yield no electrical energy in my brain
why oh why does it move slow still, and grind
                                            as a cassette track forced onto a vinyl player
why oh why, on this Monday of all Mondays
                                            on this week of all weeks
wont my ******* car start