quartered darkness drapes
and so the blue painters cry to
fainted and promised womb—

the belly of beast
cut and bled the breast,
coined the moon—
so said its rusty peaks
as they were sticks for legs
and grains of sand

womb held a note
womb hold me close
womb—the breeze
sufficed in c-note string,
the blood dripped and cooled
with pin-tipped vibrato
and so you would
sleep too—

dear one
and progression of static
where the real and unreal
meet

Spare me your venice.
I know it's beautiful, but
I've four more senses
And a nose

That smells stagnant
Water and ****
Floating with pretty buildings
On the Adriatic.

Spare me: its Doges,
its saints, its Campanile.
Spare me piazzas and
inquisitive xenophiles.

I've got all the water
And **** I desire
Floating in pretty alleys
Beside the black Thames.

thirsty soil,
hungry sky,
I rent the earth and swing over
curled in a heap of buddhist death—
a mischief light breaking a paralytic sun
so taught in no-thingness,
so creaked and crafted
as I sit at the bar—the last foam of
night popping on the bottom
of my glass.

whose to say life shouldn’t be this way—
a tempest strong and virile
as she lies clutched by the moon—
the nightest of night
blocked by resurrection
of a half-dead sun—
hungry and dear life of lost faith

my laughing river
banks the shivering pebbles
into silence—a hot, holy
moon that splits and crumbles,
rushes and spills into
a space vacu-ata and serene
loss of meaning

I never thought I’d miss you this much—
red, toiled, and soaked to the bone,
letters and numbers jumbled to bake
in hot mouths, hot atmosphere  

a shimmer
a shimmy
a bottle
and nurse a wound burnt with
a hair straightener ten years ago
dear friend,

I wear you on my shoulders everyday
and you are heavy,
sore to the touch,
cradled and band aid-ed cross
until
there you are
dreaming like you always did
in the back of my mind

I try to
loose the knot
tied to the dark

canvas of sky’s skin.
I confide to the rain
my wet lies of

noose,
trigger,
falling gun
taught against each bat
that swings and flutters.

what can I do but stand in the rain
and feel the hail melt in my hand?

I am of little
faith no longer than
a fingernail and proof
of OG goodness
this night of

re- and un-
tying ribbons

my complex jupiter pops
full body into
infectious night—mouth
bursting and bang
taught curtains
so the light can shine through
every cherry blossom
I

never asked
what I meant to you
before
you

pink in my watching

slip into
the miniature composition
of splotched blue—

and I know everything
in space
is finished