that blazing divinity
you wear like a hand knitted
scarf is blinding.

so i bow my head
as i offer the only
things i can;
a palm full of wild honey
and a weary soul.

A shimmering angel
glided in front of me
as I sat in the bookstore coffee shop
watching a documentary on
Pedro Manrique Figueroa.

What height had she fallen from?
How much of her brilliance was
from gleaming alabaster,
my divided attention,
or the loneliness I have come to call
colaboradora?

Obviously, she will never read this
and I will never know the name
which one could utter to bind
her to this lowly mortal plane
like magazine clippings to a canvas.

******* hell I need to get out more.

go ahead, confuse drunk and stumbling
down **** soaked alleyways
with a victory march
ending at an aureate throne
that i would wager
looks as if it were set atop the dais by
the most righteously fickle of pantheons.

in the spring of my life
i levitated everywhere i went
and started wildfires with
just a glance.

now, as my summer ends,
i'm begging strangers
for a light,
hoping they don't notice
the dust and blood on my feet.

it's already getting cold out.

I worry about commas
and semicolons while
a neutron star collapses
behind my eyes

two sides

I’ve made a hobby
out of getting lost
in the apocalypse
blossoming in the "ad nauseam".

Dolly zoom on the obelisk
I’ve scrawled my nonsense on.
Jump-cut to my fist clenched
at purple firmament;
blood running down forearm.
Fade to black.
No credits.

Again.
Nonsense.