During this time
of looseness,
my heart
or anyone's heart
might just
thump itself
so hard
that it breaks free from the ropes,
breaks free from the ribs,
breaks through the epidermis
in a wave of slicing
with it's newly evolved
animal hands
and a knife.

The **** does a heart
get a knife
and animal hands?

"If i'm gonna make it out of here alive," heart says.
"I gotta have hands."

So it breaks free,
scissors right through the sternum
and crawls
in a trail
until it falls from the counter
and the front door opens
a crack.

I look out a window
and it is hailing a cab,
although there aren't cabs
like that
around here.

It'll find it's way
where other piece-of-**** hearts
reside.

It will make it's way,
and I'll make my oatmeal in the morning;
that grey ****
that I shovel into my mouth.

Iron's good for the blood
you know.

My heart had a knife,
you can't tell me a ******* thing
about the iron
in oatmeal
being a blessing.

The bodies
wash up
in the night.

Wash up on the neuse
and I stand
with a trashbag;
talking to myself.

I spend the morning
walking along the shore
picking up dead bodies.

I look like a man throwing
wet, leather purses
into another
black bag.

Come to me,
come to me
with paper and pencil
and too much coffee.

Come to me
like the Sahara.

Come to me
like skyscrapers
and bandaged
clouds.

Come to me
in a whirl of flesh
vivid as oil
under a streetlight,
I will make a rainbow.

Come to me with optimism
or pessimism,
hope and death.

Come to me
like I came to you in the night,
when you were suicidal
and I had to hold you
away from your stash
of oxy's
like a knot
and uncoil myself
in the morning.

Come to me
when the fish run,
and the whales
scream
and the jellyfish
wash ashore
like glass hearts
solid and fracturing.

I can only write now,
there are windows
that open
and never close
and I am one of them.

There are bees
that bumble
in the sun
and die of over-exhaustion
on flowers with licks
of color on the petals
littered with the other papery wings
of my lovers,
I am one of them too.

There are wheels
that scream off of tractor-trailers
and impale people,
I am one of them too.

I am one of those men
that kisses women
who do not
or  
cannot
love him.

I fall from frothy clouds
onto your doorstep;
I run with ants
until my flight bones
are yellow
and the marrow
is dry.

Admittedly,
I am both
of them.

I am
a
completely
oblivious
destroyer of
the sky
and I write
because I am one of them.

I would like
to understand holy things.

I pulled up to your trailer,
and parked in the gravel.

The pebbles crunch
the same way under my feet
as they do under the wheels.

You are not outside,
like you said you would be.

I lean in the window
and honk the horn.

I hold onto it,
until you come to the door
with the baby,
and you both stare at me,
blurry behind the screen.

The horn is too aggressive
and you know it.

Will you teach me
with kisses
like you teach
the baby?

I am an open mouth,
like a cannon,
a relic,
in the front yard of an enthusiast;
the weeds lick me,
the dandelions burst in the shadows,
and that shaggy black horse
shakes the flies off of her
in spasms
as she
nibbles them.

I am waiting
to become a planter;
for the old man
to throw dirt
where shells nestled.

I am done with destruction.

I like the comforting resound
of horse teeth against iron
and roots
crawling.

I used to know a girl named Calypso,
she had beautiful shorthand
and we used to fall asleep
in her mom's house
until that was gone,
until the storm came
and she was an island
I had drawn with ink.