As awareness rescinds, (pulls back like the tide)
The screaming grows louder.
(Attention seeker, like a child).
As feet are lifted (atop hardwood
over concrete over bones)
Further from the earth we grow
(And feel.)
How can you hear them? Them, the beasts that protect life, over
All the static ringing electric currents
Flashing lights
?
Still, the water trickles.
(your Sun, still will he rise)
Whily heavy eyelids divert eyes.

Tantrum habits cry dry tears (those who've not been shaken to their core),
Beg for excess shave down years (this is not what it's all for)

Harvest season for the poor
Reaps more than plenty score for score.

Comfort now lies in divisions, don't cross my line! Come, clean my floor!
Up-nose scoffs toward open doors
(You're still welcome forevermore

Earth is not sorry for
Her mess.
You should  
Be sorry for all of yours).




And the world
The world, it spins.

My parents
Tell me to look upward
To find god
My therapist
Tells me to look inward
To find a cause
So I'm left here
Answering every multiple choice question
With "C guys, I'm fine"
Because it's easier to pretend
That life is perfect
Than deal with the fact that their efforts are worthless

ECG

They showed the broken rhythm of my heart
With inky ripples traced in peaks and troughs
The night when sudden life was torn apart
Left echoes like a dry persistant cough
This paper trail more signature of self
Than any scribbled scrawl of given names
More indication of my vital health
Than any poet’s talk of light or flames
My quick survival charted there as fact.
“And here, you see a murmured aftershock”
The remnant spider scribe of heart attack
My ailing pulse, my brittle ticking tock
Once took a moment’s beat to catch its breath
And left me reeling at the edge of death.

It starts
in the quiet
itching in the fingers
like new skin knitting under blistered burns.

I have always written.
Before I had my letters
(before the lessons
with stubby pencils
curving sense out of the air)
I would scrawl nonsense waves
folding and boiling
in a crash of senseless surf
onto pages meant for pictures

I scribbled a whole Atlantic
before sense and sound
delivered the waves to reason.

I still find it hard,
when writing,
not to let the rolling sea
scatter into fragment waves
that whisper into the breeze of my fingers.

I have tried many addictions,
I have spent people like money.
I have tied my hands
to stop from fussing at the leaves.
If I ever loved I left it still spinning,
but I have never lost the itch

a pen to scratch its bleed of ink
into a sweet clean ****** page.
To scrawl my feint history
in every broken harbour
of her yielding skin.