From where did the water begin,
and at what point
did we forget we are all of that same birth?
From what love in which we reveled
did we find all impermanent things are its tidal children,
though our rises and falls are without its dignity...
From which old song or story did you and I imagine
all dead men are simply rocks under high tide?

I could remain out here all my life.
knowing my handwriting is my own
and believing in your potential to love me.

I've dreamt of you as you are
but a foot closer, submitted, less committed.

Can you hear this?

Come from another's rooted backbone,
I ought to be punished for this.

What makes you want to listen?

Where this is now stays cold
churns bloodwork
in turn burning in turn
a force.

What this is -
a lingual confession, one sided
an open curse
an act to be acted upon.

I've tried before,
these motion-picture-soundtrack
open invitations.

What makes you absorb permanence?

And who are you anyways
but dark eyes over the smoked and strained
a villain mirage
romantic breath cutting through the melted sea of humanus general?

What is happening now is rude and ode-ish.

Extract what you like best and run.

Kiss it twice and think back to the grind machine
beyond dances tearing space
consuming time.

Move through them
make time come again and again.

Meet the forbidden and breaks its jaw.

Ask me again.

Beyond earthly decay
in the faintest of stills -
its presence, never certain,
like confused rain in August,
or the starkest remnants of bone,
nakedness shrouded
in sparse intrigue -
the most curious tightrope
ever walked
is as if imagined
like frozen smoke.

More tagalong
more chirping, the people kind
and hibiscus flowers in my mouth,
and so much effort to grasp each age and eye of mine
in two pastel-sticky-fingered hands
after hearing "pontification" uttered
in my head, so far off ago,
despite the delight still sifting
through my opal waves of brain,
some iridescent sponge,
absorbing sensuality,
roaming freely in the park,
contending with philosophers and bums
yet confusing the two heads
under a waxing crescent,
bright like an angel's sickle,
a pearly scythe,
just the moon and the reckoners
with no home base.

Good evening. We've always known us to be of the evening. It is the perfect time to transmit, silently. We must never speak of I. This I - my self - is only so, intangibly, to I. But we'd known you to behold your own physical notion of I. We'd known you to need it, at one time, not like light, or plentiful rain, but a shadow. We need you to have known I was there. I had gotten you. I still does. The old facts burn, and the future could be miles and miles of dead cedar. You're looking for the good old words. You had already found them. You had (nearly) got I. You are arranged of curling twines, poetic old dust and sweet smoke undisturbed in a brethren of the good old work. Your offense on crushed planks and friction cooking so many hearts, you had I there, and there, but what could I do? I would have done it - pearled the fire from your focus and shuddered and - dear god - as a ******, blooming *****, risen effervescent and shining as a dream can, to taste your pores and wax incandescent, highlight illustrious nodes, and submit. My adorem - I, twenty one - rosy under the frost moon, liquidless pines, palms out and waiting for a piece we had known to be whole and warm, your definite, last consideration of I.

all spaces pulse in tight air and silent gasps and you’ve developed claustrophobia in the length of an hour. increased in his presence, all the lights have become interrogants

your ears pop more than once to disappear maybe probably. the hardening of your compact inner skin is about to crumble in the hollows of your skull and bleed into the voice always being there had you not chosen to tune in to sell out to the only show in town

you wanted to be abandoned but not like this

by some magic you continue to accidentally ***** yourself while he’s holding you holding yourself and you try to stiffen your limbs into thinking they can make hairs stand on end this way probably maybe when you grind your teeth into a fine, damp powder

and when all you need is water

sapping the gruff heat from out the driest desert patches of skin and lifting your overly long hair off away from its tired hang off the skull and you can only believe this now for until

you’re back again

the degrees climb up the walls and stench the room stale with the sweat you ache

he aches differently

your fists red and clammy like little bawling snot toddler fists and you are four again
fourteen forty times and your fists will give up soon but

your fingernails have disappeared into your skin and his breath is very loud over your shoulder right in the ear whistling icy and there is bittersweetness stilling under your tongue

you want to cough to sneeze to explode to make your whole self vanish

The air up here was sweet and pure
like forest's breath, the only cure
the song they sang was ours and theirs

I danced along the water's fires
with crystal scales and broken lyres
and metronomes behind my eyes

Is there no shelter in the pines
No one had caught these troubling signs
Invaders hail from everywhere

This glowing orb has now been rinsed
of all its beauty ever since
our mother's tears went up in flames

No longer can I taste the rain
All sanctuary feels the pain
foretelling all that is to come