on the canvas. I was
wet and dripping like a feral
kitten. My creator didn’t lay me
out in the sun. And so, my colors

run. The red and blues
look purple. The mother’s milk
curdled. Throwing me up as *****. And so,
I left a stain. Beaten by the brush

I lost my sense of touch. Now
I’m oily. I’m a spill in a broken
frame. I hang on the wall as
a flower. None admire me. But I haven’t
nerves to leave.

i do not believe in god
but i do believe in poetry
and for me
maybe poetry is prayer
and the universe
is an unwavering ear
in the shape of a god

sometimes i want to burn things
to see them dance with the fire
two partners, fighting for an infinite second
in the brick fireplace of a temporary being.

then they are gone, turned to ashes
the fire burns itself out.
that dance, so beautiful, so inevitable
only lasted a second
before the dancers had places to be

encore, encore
and get another piece of scrap paper
and light another match.

oh, to be the fire
primitive and swirling.
but no.

i'll just have to watch.

I have tasted human flesh
From the oven of
Lips and tongue;
Dripping well-dressed
In savory sauce,
To stir me to feast on.

we seek beauty in our mortality,
in the circulation of the human blood
the agony of life lingers in our veins and
heats our frozen hearts,
and we find love in
the longing for death