We packed koi fish in a suitcase,
for some lost reason
That they’d help move our undead bodies
into transforming light
is thrilling— thrilling— magical thinking

The light only lets
a fine gleam off water
play with a fish’s ambition to enter
the cold— coldest— moment of its short existence
before the weight of a dragon is suffered forever

We packed koi fish in a suitcase,
for some lost reason
That anyone here could even ride upon a dragon
into myth
is so far surpassing delusional thinking

We’ve been pushing around boxes
Towers and causeways, and carpeted birthways
ellipsed in front of the fish’s vision
So it’s no ones fault for hoping
at one point immaculate doorways would open

A Calypso or a curved back could never stop
the disturbing of corners, or the rhythmic surf
thralling koi all morph within a charging breath
but for not the movement to **** at our fins,
then amidst, lo, immaculate doorways-went

It’s no wonder koi fish have come
closer to dragons than anything’s come
That they’d be key and coach for a new home
in it’s new light
is thrilling— thrilling— actually done

You are a part
of a whole
You are a part of a part of a whole
You are a function of ancient answers
You are a questioning, questioning soul

You are the breath
of a death
You are the life of a dying breath
You are the function of ancient answers
You are the flower from yesterday's rain

You are a change
in yourself
You are your sep’rating, sep’rating self
You are the message to all of the living
You are the call from the land itself

You are a part
of a whole
You are a part of part of an old
existence that is over
functioning proper and allowed

a rest
for a change
for the rest is being unmade
You are a function of ancient answers
You are living
You are dead

Neither man nor woman

Does it sting? Stinging,
to read that? To think that?
Do you know the kind of life I lead?

To be stuck with

a synonym for mirror,
the dreadful thing.

But
But, even the ocean has a horizon

Let me go,
go over it.

Let me surpass everything.
Because I pass.

Not in the mirror,
but I pass,
in spirit, gently,
and with all the conviction.

All the combustion
All the clouds
of a sun.
The Sun.

Forge me into a solid glass;
a chemicals
I’m begging myself.

Myself,
myself.

I’m this travel bag
of chemicals
not made for the spaces
cars or feet make.

I am this immiscible thing,
sometimes hated.
Oh God, never man nor woman.

Scratches don’t hurt anymore.
No, I don't feel pain at all.

I’m happy.
Maybe.

Maybe, I’m happy.

I love that you make my drinking feel small because, of course, you used to trade bitcoin,
and propane is your suicide,

and your anger.
I love your anger.

I love the steering wheel twinkling in your black eyes,
and the leaping traffic, and our solemn pessimism.

and your evil,
your self-described evil.
I love your evil,
your smug evil.

You could climb roadside ditches, I bet, if the downfall provided
fruit. I love your snakes, and the cackles of snakes,

and your evil.
You have this modest evil,
feinted coats, and no soul,
nor any like of souls.

I want you to continue
to welp my drunkenness into your narrative,
yes, sublime love carries, lovely, Hypocrite fonts.

I love that you make me your best friend, by tell and not show,
by making me laugh. Through fear,

and your happiness,
most of all I can't breath without
your happiness.
I love your melted joy,

and your anger,
I love your anger;

you're too close to me.

I look up to god
When I'm drunk

because

He's a view to
Crane my neck to.-

gets in the way

~

Your fate is to die in the earthworm's stomach;

Deploy detail from your life
and digitize a seance for its-self

alone

only one who knows you
is

. . .

Could you even
defy Hershey's grip,
you sodomite?

Playing @
these sorts of extracurricular fights

It's truly
earthworm's who will deliver you right-

ly a quick and sympathetic death.

~

but f٭٭k it. Roach
Away floods my feet,
and factions divide my liver;
i am hardly
flotsam.

I'm adjectives of wreck,
synonyms of much
deprived floods of
smoke. Such that shuts
me away, away, away.
Fate-funs break my spirit-
and you run,
you run!

How dare you rush like sequin
onto any bare skin surface-
you chocolate, running.
I hate you

I hate you all.

Do not develop emotions,
or ****;

and by all means,
despise yourself.

And,

waste

apart from mind.

Be you in an earthworm's behind.

~

F٭٭٭٭٭g a challenging nothing.
I want you to be something,
anything.

Nun me. I would make
many-***** out of your pieces
of cake.
I hate you.

I hate you all.

You. F٭٭٭٭٭g. Lottery. Punks.

The lines in my face are a perfect sum
of the precise faults of
the earthworm's gut.

~

Your neurotic monks-
you've got me
addicted
to a specific death

My fate is to develop in the earthworm's gut.

/

Maybe I'll experiment with blood

Maybe I'll experiment with bloodK٭٭l me quickly

K٭٭l me quickly

Maybe I'll adhere with burns

Maybe I'll steer me under
under
under
ground

Milk me quickly

I can’t be a suicidal sine
serving a princess-and-the-pea type mind

Maybe I’ll try to be a DeviantArt update,
desperate emotion bemusing in keystroke

I’ll experiment with light

I’ll imperialize her fuse

Fill yr unsanitized fins with

Ifs

and maybe I'll experiment with ***

Maybe I'll rip you from your life

Ifs spit from naked myth

K٭٭l me quickly,

you horrible,

you gorgeous

earthworm spit.

I support you
Wherever you leave to
Tell me goodbye first

Sunday has no value to me
as a day off
but, if I had Sunday off
I would start going to church
for the company.

I would go to the church with
rainbow lawn chairs lined up
outside. An upside-down cross
big above the door.
Walking distance.

Where there gathers,
I fear,
the same old collection
of fearless adults.
I’m scared of you,
anyway.

I’d like to get away.
Once a week -
of course the job does that
most days -
not on Sunday.

I sent my head into the ground.
If I met before a congregation
they would forgive me
for making a concussion
of my evening.

Sunday has no value to me.
Let it be
a day of work.
But, I would go to church.
Sit in the back.

I’ve given a year of love to
someone who doesn’t love the same way I do

Why does your trauma get to
dissolve my personality?

Why have I felt unfathomably lonely
forever?

Disassociation does a disservice -
as a word - there isn’t anyone
here,

except for your dog.

I don’t care about wearing ruins,
there are plenty of ruins in waiting;

I have enjoyed falling.

Do you think the sunflowers will grow high
that one day they might
touch the concrete
in the garden— they stopped growing
i will chop them up
they bleed red blood into the sky

Humans do not learn to weave
cocoons while they transform
You will watch the pupa, under
Begging be not prey

It is the most obvious meta
phor, but who would not want to meta
morph into a lepidopteran?

Humans do not learn to wreath
cocoons of keeping light
But who would not want to let
light wreaeth your mass?

It is the most obvious com
posure, but who would not want to com
plete biological closure?

Humans do not learn to wean
pain when they apply
complex pictures of the body
to the aging mind

It is the most obvious trans
ition, but who would not want to trans
late, rather than never?

I had said there is nothing so big
in the lake of stars. Its bedding,
a leap of logic weaved of dreadful-
hundred undiscoverable facts
passing itself off as that smaller thing:
our known universe,
Cvoa the Worm
each is one tooth to another
hanging form. Gone, adorn
skies that sit unsame is:
Cvoa the Worm
Bathysphere suns explode at the chance
that heat from the self will pass over
Its skin, bending forth, and setting.
I had said there is nothing so fathomably It

Red rock green eyes reacted like coteries to a river delta,
Careening and laughing out with powerful winding lines
Blood vessels lost in the Everglades,
Or a Nine Dragon whisper; focus, foaming,
Breathing dust-gone blacks on a pupil moat

Trust me that the rain will dry
And everything that you see will cease becoming mud
Instead, fire will wet around the boats
Bells will fold bubbles, bronze, telling stories
Summer becoming summer when you blink, crushing fir trees into fossils

Crushing conifery into fossils— velvet
Velvet! Soaking the top of the sky,
And everything, and mountainbacks;
Your face tests a complex blue
Green answers back into floodwater hue

Red rock … blood along the tear duct, fell out
Something known— like a thought, or a revelation, creating
More of you than the eyes would ever break
Shorelines tossed along in their horrific distance
Great serpents gouging out the sun,

And I can no longer look at you
Red rock green eyes drenched, skipping across the collapse
Mimicking an umbrella bird, like puffs of smoke and clouds, and survival instinct
So hideous to me. I was in love with you
We saw bright colors together— bright feathers— and speaking cliffaces

Was my gaze so coveted that it keeps
Castles collapsed into their moats?
Tribes collapsing into the most basic of parts?
Forests without the meeting of roots?
A rainbow of rivers, diverged into soot?

Color without compassion— red rock glimpses into disaster
Bereaving and faster and faster the current collects
Green eyes lost in the ******,
Or the end of the world; always thinking
You couldn’t possibly leave a trace in the water

I am a crystal
Barely, I glow
But I glow;
I glow in blue

I can’t help think
The dark is brutal
Yet stays the light
My hues and like
Won’t pass its strait
Arrested Celestine;
I wait

Baby moths are landing
rarely onto my faces making
their delicacy all the more
apparent between visits,
and no visits

I am breasting
I cleave and grow
Yet I grow;
I grow in blue

I can’t help think
The edge of sight
Within its black
Will so attack
My fragile, opaque
Arrested Celestine;
I wait

The first month I budded,
understanding nothing much,
there was still an understanding
that I existed at the stage
Where all these other crystal weaves
had succeeded at first,
making, in the cave, definitions of me

Later, I felt the pressure of ten tonnes
of Earth beckon behind us to move
And that was at least instinctual,
and I moved very slowly
for a few decades

I am a crystal
Bearing and I bloom
Don’t watch me bloom;
I bloom in blue

I can’t help think
The way is brutal
Where neither fight,
Nor flight is quite
Applicable to
Arrested Celestine;
I wait

One confining night (or day)
you responded that you loved me too,
and echoes of that scared the dark
It was very sudden then, the light
that threatens so to shake me loose
I caught myself shining, and I think
I shined in pink

I am Celestine
Making me blue
And I glow;
I glow in blue

I can’t help think
The few breaths I see
Baby moths take
Makes me make
Willing faces
That bounce more light;
I wait

A half day later you found me
growing up. By chance, I’m the
smallest formation, sticking out
There is no sky but the air
is discovering along beside you
My glowing blue suddenly relevant,
there’s felt hands along the cave
until baby moths are scared into
corners where my color shines through

Arrested Celestine
Is making me blue
but I shine;
I shine in pink

I can’t help think
The dark is brutal
So scares the light
The more it’s like
You love me too
Brightest Celestine;
I make

Baby moths were growing
up around my monitor taKing
heat away from the dark areas
still glowing arUund our boxes—
and ghost boxes

ThE first month I met youu,
reading you completely wrong
was right before frayed July
collapsEd the year on us where,
while I looped solens mekanik—
loved at what litttle of me existed
and sleeped aT the sun,

LatEr we set boundaries,
and learned a ٭small٭ amount
more about each other
Being trans is ٭really٭
alll we haVe in common

One confining nigHt I panicked
over the pictures of you in my
mind coMmitting into drapery
about a mantis—⠀⠀⠀all the hearts
⠀⠀⠀⠀ are pink or blue—
so that after you said ٭suicide٭ I
hallucinated calling you, but with-
out the simple yes / no / please I
need to push through even more
inteNse knots,
I don’t

Another night, in palous September,
I had told you her name after she laughed
that moths can’t breathe inside air
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀  (which shocked me because
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the only moths I’ve ever liked
lived inside)
I grieved for both of us
After sEveral days of specIfic secrecy,
about hours before and after I
aagain was going to call you—
this time outsiDe of dreaming
the roboTic ways we would hug

A half day laTer you catch me
waking up. By chance, it’s the year
my immovable nightmares move,
but you’re saying
you cut yourself and ran away
My feelingS no longer relevant,
there’s felt pauses between
stares of saying nothing,
but you want to know anyway

Baby moths are testing
quick dances upon my face
Very suddenly I wanted to say
I love you
I don’t know youu and that may be
neither realistic, nor prudent(???)
But, June, I had already tried
٭here’s a suicide hotline٭
for my owN peace of mindd
and forgoing sleep to fever dRead

And I love you
wouldn’t mean anything
For some reason, I’m sure

You give an inch of empathy to a hidden religious majority
and they extend from the shadows to throw eras of baggage
with the camouflaged patterns of love stitched between them

Baggage of whispered systems; focus tested patriarchs
and Devils understood as your anxiety and depression
beautifully uncritical of the power structure we’re borne from

We speak together of ٭The good ones٭
The good Atheists, the good believers
Who pilot understanding above the spreading of hate

Yet, my father isn’t a fear-inbreeding tongue
My father isn’t an immaculate son
My father isn’t the centre of heart
My heart is a cruel and rejecting satan of doubt

Or, that’s how it feels
when you give an inch of empathy to a hidden religious majority
and I have to smile, nod at their nodding at me
I have to agree with their morals of unconditional love
but flinch when the eras of baggage are thrown
there at my feet. And Paul is a warm, unassuming elite

A broken house.
Lights working against themselves.
A fire on the very edge of a table.
Cracks in the basement in the pattern of five decades of rainstorms,
where for two decades I hid from them.
Where I learned to fear the weather.
Where the furnace leaves with so few words
in the longer and longer and longer winters.
In that I discovered the confusing shapes of neglect
projecting like the 4th dimension along my life.

But I grew up here…
I’ve placed my soul in different places,
between the walls.
My soul in my computer, and my soul across the floor,
spread out and carried wherever goes my dog’s hair.
And he will stay buried here,
or else in several vacuums, and trash cans, and trash trucks,
and trash mountains;
my brother.

Soul in smells of burning, and birth defects.
Pictures that I’ll be discovering under my bed,
and filing cabinets from the 60s with their yellowed paper that I’m afraid to breathe.
My soul in boxes that I still haven’t opened from websites-
usually clothes that don’t yet match my body image-
and I suppose they can ship again, with the truck, as is.
One hundred yearbooks that will show me what nothing I did about being trans,
for all I knew…

The first vestiges of a real human, in my memories,
becoming about the thresholds, shyly.
Sending myself away to the next day,
every day. Beginning school, and ending a frayed dropout
counting the nights until I assumed the universe wouldn’t let me get away with this any longer.

My soul in my 23rd September, and my last winter.
Dedicating, now, its entire core to a new, and existentially unknown supporting organism.
Would everyone allow me to mourn my losing a house?
Do not make me match your optimism, your assumptive congratulations.
I feel my soul being stumbled upon, and thrown into an unplanned demolition.

Spirited away, from my perspective,
with 160 thousand dollars to invest into the opportunity to spend 280 thousand dollars
over the next 40 years.
Playing with numbers that don’t even account for the consulting with doctors,
and the consorting with happiness.

60 days to leave a force of nature
that will soon attract flood water into the lives of the young couple
who I can’t imagine sitting around making the same mistakes I make,
plugging into the drywall, and calling the resulting warmth a kind of home
come November.

60 days to leave my soul.

god is not a coin flip
his gender is implicit

excise all thoughts that sound of dissention
and consider your mind made by nothing other
than the systemic fetter of a thousand generations
who think prisons and hell are righteous endeavors

god is not a coin flip
you are free to try and fit

that puzzle of your logical, realistic, loving brain
inside the orchestrated plastic of patriarchal form
pleading in choral for to hate the ******
or times, monks, in matching baritones

god is not a coin flip
the angels are complicit

the work of raisin giants
won’t let me from their grip
fae and fruit dragons are sent
into historical myth, ley
way for the channels of text proclaiming
the dreams that are real and real-and-not

fake- you stay awake for raisin giants
came upon the desert mountains. they
forbade you be gay, “or worse.” made
thoughts about love unwanted phases
blind spaces in the vision of the lord
until i begin growing *******, for
the christian eye is mimicking satan
taking passes at the throne of judgment
each and every one of them, unknowns

myself was not a coin flip
i’m nothing in contention

the debate of raisin giants
against the confluence of light,
their omnipotent subjective indifference
go figures in fiction on every ism
a white brainwashing for each occasion
has not torture since been a celebration

the execution- the work of raisin giants
the inquisition implicit as blood to romans
your freedom to choose the name of me
as life is philosophically opposing things
your romans would decry tolerance, too
all the most powerful are genesis glue
it’s so me to develop these comely notions
it’s so me to define friendship on emotions-
the work of raisin giants

the god of deeply men
his gender is explicit

cast away the waxy bile that you used to write qadosh
you speak for the most dangerously spiteful of hosts
the ever bigoted fetter of a thousand generations
who think naked fear is the good path to hope

god is not a coin flip
we are free to think us free

to believe in any personal reality, or identity
inside the practiced notes the raisin giants sing
leading with the ever anger of a human being
or times, god above, in matching animosity

We still love you.

For love is in contention.

Cast away the comely marrow that you use to think yourself

Whole.

You can step off of the world if you think us this cold

Sort. ٭٭٭٭,

Don’t wander in the forest.

For life is in contention.

٭٭٭٭, step here,

and step there-

and such, so we can know you.

Forsake the forest things, or do not continue further.

Cold-

Why are you so cold?

Cast away the comely marrow that you use to change yourself.

Lo, ٭٭٭٭,

Your love is in contention.

Cast away the way you make it, or we will not love you.

The sky was nothing, but nebulae stretched across three-hundred million years in distant patches of dust-streaked systems.

In-between was a common substance altogether defined as something missing. In these pathways, voidspace, were waves unrecognizable as thoughts left over from the explosion of a sun.

I spoke. Softly falling, like the last raindrop in a storm, my influence not considered as much as my absence was before. I say that I don’t have a body, but I have a form. A pour of peaks and troughs, and thoughts- somehow- and will, and more.

My quilt of neurons-were is here, is stored in voidspace. Clears of filaments, antimatter, hem as far as vibrations embrace all of them.

I awoke in the afterlife of Earth. Am I air, or something of that sort? A momentary retreat of the excessive supernova? Still… I’m coding the breadth of time between breaths when I was my body. I am able to be.

I am many changing frequencies. Human parallel with the stars behind me. That before who I described as exploding was nothing more than a constellation of molecules hopelessly enframing. I may have gone young, but I was not aging. I realize that we weren’t designed for changing.

The sky was an uncountable series of lights, and too an accent of infinite black. But the void plays gently around my intent. We express all that can be, and could be expressed, in the smallest differential of space distressed.

In a motion I cry for the atmosphere I lost. Lorelei with her sheltered grove of strife. Layers of nightmares come-to-life. And a leering monkey attached to her back, the prehensile production of what ultimates death.

Her worst fear was always what others would remember. What they used to call her. And now we have all been extinguished together.

The waveform oscillates, up and down. She begins to panic, and suppose. If I am here then they are too. And they know not for whom they grieve. Is the void- is it all the same? Did I fail to coordinate with the end of the world?

The sky was nothing, responding back. Gas formed a rainbow of pillars of salt. Swirls of memories standing at the edge. Groups of Galatians stabbed with knives. Blood in the water of Spring in Order, and everybody else who has ever suffered. White chalk, my dog who only ever knew my old smell. Crying solipsism on the steps of a cathedral. All the screens in all their phases. Because she must create noises, brittle, as the rotting ragdoll’s needle. Bugs wrecking, inseperence, roses in acidosis imprint; all their healing in all insistence. If you all stayed longer you would have met me-

In the voidspace I flatline. The microscopic adjustments flutter as I emulate her heartbeat. It’s one thing that I don’t remember. I realize how cold we are in-between. She must have formed during the winter. All the veins are clocks like pulsars.

Can any of you hear me?

mother
father
sister
brother

I was born, I think, to be loved.

voidspace
sun
father
mother
of

She was born, I think, to be loved.

But the air I fill is never warm. Void. Sky, in, I exist is never still. I thought the process of negative matter would effectively displace the isolation. All the cells are fluctuations.

Light-traced electromagnetic ranges are making me in the naked night. Void. Separation. The eye is nothing to the observation. What amount have I thoughtlessly absorbed since the very first particle created sight?

The sky was irrevocably something, and I have grayed before, and beyond it. What is the separation of reality / contradiction; all the self is imprecise, and maybe every brain is this same confliction.

My vertex meets the arbitrary crest of a larger place. I say that I don’t have a body, but I have a voice. At some indefinable distance in time, I am responded with another copse of sines.

daughter
daughter
daughter
daughter

My sun is gone too. All your waves are projections of anguish. I am not sure if I know you. All I am is that I hear you. Every peak is meeting troughs of yours that recompile mine. In this way we can create and uncreate love.

Although… it did not take the end of our kind to be capable of change. For we were, and are still, composed of our sun. In voidspace the makeup of emotion is clearer. Lo, all the stages are in their own way a deception betrayed by their need for expression. Look around and you can see each atom is composing a partner in this reflexive pattern. Recursive, and always following each other.

I know this does not account for your mind. You experience her in a macroscopic sense. I believe I can define your negative space. We can stretch the additive wave throughout time.

Until we are whole.

The sky was my own. This strange cosmic warmth stretched forever and I… spoke. Softly nodding. I say that I don’t have a body, but we are a voice.

The sky was
yellow
and there were
versions
of the sun
roaming

Electricity flicks through my ears
it all cares little for my animal fear

The sky was
intense
violent where so many
sisters
of the sun
shone

Run away slips vibrant through my brain
the mechanisms of life won’t allow me to remain

The air was
passive
in that moment
before
the balance
of sky broke

That moment was most of my own existence
but little of me matters in a brilliant indifference

I was some
carbon
one-tenths hydrogen
more oxygen
where she begins
everything

Composed entirely of one explosion
when I couldn’t oppose a single implosion

The ground was
shaking
and there were
vapors
becoming
of all that was stone

Plasma drifts by my tears
it so cares not that I disappear

All the clouds
soup or
already belonged
to her-
I am not
a witness

I am a passage through her cycle of embers
The critical atoms in her final center

What is the separation of dawn and dusk
The spectrum of a self-harming creation
And lasting exactly as long as it takes
The mixture to disconnect into faces

Softly
falling
like ossuary waters

What fixtures of me will hold; dawn into dusk
The sections, I hope, of a beautiful thing
That bleeds into the same color
That it now is instead

Blurry euphoria and all too much
Like the complexity of flowers,
Poses, wraps, Antheia, paths
Direct and lifelong circumspect

Softly
falling
away
exploring

Before I sleep let dawnlight level
Afore what darkness had unsettled
The threshold pulled beneath
Increasingly brilliant morning’s breed

Exploding
softly
or i say

i can’t be one of the safe
shadows
unexplored for years

in light but the air
betrays
dawn stars and dusk

Softly
lift me
separate or
destroy

Something living between dawn / dusk
A pressure like the sky is collapsing
And knowing why but letting the pattern
Discretize in the dark of my pupils

What is the recomposition of like
Exactly the same compilation of light
Displayed in a larger resolution yet
Shattering shattering shattering

Softly
falling
like day destroys night

i have to be one of the brave
people
reaching out their arms

there is no wind but the air
plays
gently around my eyes

i step out
to easter
fallow
to second winter
under the archway
you find me funny

i have to be one of the debated
people
unafraid and free

there is no snow but the air
escapes
shivering from my throat

you follow
after me
after running
i find you didn’t raise me
even
for a second

you say i let you down; what
perch were you on?
you’re only ever dying in my poems

there are no words but the air
makes
connections i can’t make

softly
recalling
advice
to take my
time. by time
did you mean move on?

i have to be one of the some
millions
charting the night sky

there is no light but the air
shakes
light from inside my mind

i just cry
for even
the void
won’t take me;
in-between
the wrong two things

i have to be by myself
trying
accepting who i am

there is no wind but the air
at least
is staying here with me

I won’t tell you about them-

The plants, I mean.

But…

I’ve kept them all cataloged

Nicely!

And the book is little, and green!

Heavy. And there’s…

Vines that bind it together when I give them light.

Also there’s a lot of pages

Blank.

Because I’m bad at drawing snakes

Of stems, and petals new.

They grow so quickly,

Quiet.

Soon we’ll see a Spring-

The plants, and me.

And I can seek more than seeds…

Little rounds things that describe nothing of their root network

So I wonder if I should be around all these plants that don’t speak-

Though I do record the silence in a heavy green book.

I also meet

The ground, and the Earth

I think in my head how I could see the roots.

Or draw colludes of quiet life matter-

I think over and over.

I think, and the vines are not binding the book any longer.

Sketches that I spent so much time with

And their loving, long aged descriptions

Fall around me.

I meet the floor

Take all of my plants

And I run out into the thaw before Spring.

The Earth!

And your Sun!

I hold up my pages so to again bring life!

I’ve just drawn some pictures of plants

Many more blank.

The Earth

And the Sun

The ground

Seeds, and vines

Do not bind together what no longer belongs.

I see this

And I see the clouds

Folded quietly around the Sun.

I think

And envision a life.

Only without the plants to be my friends.

I feel

Like a lot is lost,

But in a tiny way

Like sort of a seed.

Carried on the wind.

Blown out of its deep, but fragile network of support.

Away from the book

Binding

Failed.

In those pages were pictures of plants.

I won’t tell you about them-

My friends, I mean

But…

I’ll float away from the Sun

Separately.

I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Chop it off of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun

No fun
And inward spikes along the skull
No fun
And many needles that can pull
Out from my gut. Many suture-making teeth
Unaligned and redefining what it is that makes me, me

I have tape on my body
Designating my body
All the parts of my body that don’t
Stay on for refrigeration
And I have no blood

No blood
And no communication, thus
No blood
May be injected and no blood will be discussed
No point along the flaccid rheme of plastic
Face-aphasia gleam. Like a scream of being me
And I no longer have a mouth

I have worms in my body
Reconquesting my body
From all the good that the doctor did
Before I am left on my own
And I have no fun

No fun
With a reverberating voice
Which plays off the worms in a delicate way
Who are symptomatic and symbiotic
And playing at taking my mind away
Reaching up in the way that makes me shake
Or forget for a second that the body is the face
And believe that scar tissue is a different thing who bleeds

I cast shadows of my body
Of my innards in my body
Separate that within me or just
Incise the brain’s connection
And I have no self

I have hitches in the heart of the body of my birth,
Burnt hairs in the heart. For something of that sort
Would recede in the stiff which retreat hundreds,
Thousands of wings just beneath my skin- Scalpel-
And receive them a light, receive them a glow. Set
Back the muscle, so receive them a hope in the light
And that leaves me far away, casting shadows at
Something new instead of something writhing apart,
But inside. Living, trying, inside-

I have nerves in positions
That would leave me in fission
Should they believe they are not me so
Fall insolubly throughout me
And I have no fun

No fun, under a winter’s slush, and a winter’s moon
Getting up to live in body unsucceeding on this earth
Getting off dusk’s transportation into an ocean current Oort
Sort of thing- sort of thing the brain thinks it must endure
Courted by endorphins into sirening, O doom
Dwells winged servants following a swell
Of themselves rides choruses, feeling the walls
Feeling the way this body grows a thousand smells
And stretches and oozes pus into the ocean current slush
I feel it all dry, form craters, stomach lumps

I have strung up scores of organs moving unconsenting while I sleep
I have unsent letters, and confessions, and an obsession with the Me
On tiny journal things, or stored in obscure folders, or in conversations,
Or lording o’re my brainpour down around my joints. More days sleep
Replaces personality; goring lovely caverns of flesh from my sides
And I have no fun

But silence. I have litres of melody hiding in the hippocampus
Sing-songy excuses for my pupalic inseparence
That turn into dry scatters- a bat’s ***** matter in a living cavern
My lungs and teeth shatter, and over sound gathers such
What makes a transforming music so more the flatter
And I have no voice any longer

I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Let me out of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun

Waed, for a stain- a split second- gains strength
Shade of red amid a gloomy wavelength
Made rainbow saturated in vulture’s stench
Splayed, festering on asphalt and blaring outwards “Death!”
Waed- like reaching outwards, pulling at my breath

Aid not for a laid out system of cells killed,
Pomade out on the gas station pavement
Came He, vulture, for a mind filled
To unbraid scents, spent nights, days unfurled,
Aid He not even the shade between brain wrinkles

cloud smudge the carrionoil spill
i am scared- i am not- oh, how these thoughts fill,
cloud, smudge my carrion coil- just how still
do i lay for the vulture?

Bore, they, holes along me for centuries
For, He, deathly centered in my memories
Gore and tasteless fluid ley my heartsease
And tore slowly through my arteries
Or seeped sour ‘round like nectaries

cloud smudge the carrionoil drips
i can feel the rain- i cannot- it licks
waters mix the carrion spoil- just how styx
splits away the odour

I plant seeds in the gashes my
claws leave
In your skin I plant seeds where
air sees
Me plant seeds in the blood you
conceive
In your leaving you breathe as you
retrieve
Strength, like ossuary waters
I plant seeds in the current that your
life bleeds

That your life stops. You,
Stirring in ossuary waters
struggling under

I wonder where the seeds will eventually
breathe
In your skin I command they one day
eat
Away at your life sustaining
stream
In your battered keep of holes where
seeps
Strength, like ossuary waters
I plant seeds in the current where your
life leaves

Why should it matter, you say.

Why indeed.

I don't want to know you anymore.

It doesn't matter.

You would say I'm sorry you feel that way.

You good Christian boy.

Are you hurt?

Do you feel hurt?

I want you to be hurt with me.

I am not well and neither is this world, and you are not well.

Cry!

We should all be crying.

That you would rather ignore all of this. Hurts.

You ask what does it matter what you feel.

Of course it matters what you feel.

All beautiful and ugly parts together and trying to coexist no longer.

You would turn your cheek from an explosion such as me?

We will coexist no longer.

Angel
lift
me up
I could
learn
to live
in the sky

Chronic
pain is washed
away
as clouds
are made
of blood
and things

Air
becomes
my order
in-poured
my eyes
can’t see gas
in that range

Concepts
before
that connect
in ways
complex
and many
sacrifices
made

To what
amount
is never
known
but bodies
keep
the score
in years

All gone
with patchy
vapor
in place
acting as
my skin
my case

Angel
lift
me up
I would
take
to wing
silently

We hold our breath until
I close my eyes and feel the sensation of rain
With my brain becoming the air trapped inside a car
Sticking to the glass
But all the clouds are hearts,
Lo
We don’t even have to check

They framed your face in a perfect glow
Perfectly overwriting the scars and the wraith
In my eye reflecting back on the sky
Burning on the glass
All the clouds are hearts,
Lo
We would never dare breathe

We created the memories
In retrospect. Because through the glass
You can’t be seen
I drag my sleeve, and through the fog
All the sky is hewn from dark
So
To scare us from ever checking again

I turn my breath from the glass
And consider that seeing each other in clouds
Is a rather shallow way of finding a soul
This turning away from the death of your face
Is a recursive eventide to the rest of our life
All the clouds are hearts in the morning sun,
Lorelei
I do not see the sun making us one

I turn my frustration toward the fog
Or smoke, or the knife's-edge gasps leaving my lungs
From the natural causes to which she succumbed
To the poisonous diet of our Capuletian plan
I quietly process how we were made this way
Is it human to be born as an imperfect creator
Lo,
Of self— of self feelings, identity and gender?

We hold our breath until
I find my body in the place that we stand
With my face again framed by the usual scars
Swirling in the fog
But all the clouds are hearts,
Lori
All as before

They remind me, in some ways, of a golden head
Perfectly overwriting your past in the sun
Thus bringing peace, but deflecting a lie
Standing in the fog
All the clouds glow,
Lorelei
I dare not deflect the peace that she brings

We created a body
In pieces. Brittle; as quiet
As I could make it
Dragging her feet, lo, human-desperate
All the clouds are in their places
So
To form the beating, bleeding

Systems of fascia and connective scripture
A sky-blue mixture in layers of fog
But violently human as a thundercloud
This turning away from the rain on your face
Begets only angels to carry you off
All the clouds are still,
Lori
Inside of a storm

I turn my face toward the ground
Waiting to strike you through the clouds
A resuscitation and golem, in one
And the clay will love for real, with time
Lightning in the fog
All the clouds pour,
Lorelei
All as before

silver titmouse
looks like a river spirit
on your speckled grey branch
a sun spirit glows under your wings
feed your hatchlings coal before winter

southwest american finch
with a face like plaster on a brick wall
you are a fierce echo of a raptor
through years like wonderful blazes
of fire, each of all twenty million

acclaimed nightingale
traveled nightingale
sung and shone and shedding tales
do you use your celebrity to distract
predators or does the weight abstract you?

and calandra
all over your coat is a spackled
story of the world in colors
and you left your molt in cages
in houses on cliffs in so many places

maintained with rubble
around the corners and floors
your crest poking out the cracking facade,
and your nesting to stone like a frozen petard
children under your wing for not to go blind

nightingale all
reverberations and stretchings
of the forest focus back on you
but you are unseen, and a larger spirit;
i think of you as the forest

resulting rosefinches
that burn within
like stages of celestial fission
sustaining together greater
and much smaller fires

or other small birds like the river spirit

ozone
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think of you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀being poisoned
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀but you would unform as you formed
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀anyway

sun
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀already out of comprehension
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think of you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀just sitting

apophis, YU or
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀any other rock
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think of you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀heading towards Earth
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think how i’m heading there too

sagittarius a
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you pull light
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀though i can’t see you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i see the light
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think of you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀as the light

great attractor
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i am going home
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i have seen your great skin
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀nothing and tall and beyond
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the boundaries

trace gasses from my body and agitations in space-time
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀spiraling behind my drifting
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀stiff
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀limp
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀tense
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀relaxed
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀b­ody like that tail of Draco

tadpole
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think more about you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the ejection spins around like
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a clock
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a positron
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀electron
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀jumprope
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀off ramp
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀long hair
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀recursion from before i was born
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and that goes on without my understanding
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀or consent
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀or the air around a dreidel
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀top
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Earth
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a supercluster
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀supervoid
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀magnetic field
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀breath current coming out onto my visor

arm of perseus
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀have i only traveled three-hundred
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀million
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀light years
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀since you were the closest warmth i felt
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀fall upon me
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀of sagittarius
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀her children
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think of you

andromeda
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀will be much closer
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ozone will protect no one i know
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀sun will give life to no one i know
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀will they remember me
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i think about
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀do they think about me

Psalms to ****** Ecclesiastes; now Ephesians as I wait to know you. Where is my Paul for the Philippians? Where is my Batterson, within reason?

I wait with the Bethlehem on fire that is cast in the flames of Men in fissure. Who’s cast from the narrow, wrought iron gates, and ****** and made to suffer forever.

Now Matthew and ten thousand words on pagans; fruits of Galatians raving mad. And when you cannot see, or won’t see my heart, I only understand how to blame myself.

Corinthians to your heavenly realm; enmity in your so graceful of hearts. Are your blessed Revelations witnessing second death? Something else more important than ethics or love?

“For we live by faith, not by sight” For I was so faithful to ever play part in your diaspora of Brothers in Epistle performance, redemption and providence so greedy and perfect. Was I by nature deserving of wrath? So where is my Paul for Ephesus-sent?

O, Theism as cover from flame- the Bethlehem, now crying your name. Yet silent in that omnipresent manner, at night.

And there is no one crying left to challenge what’s divine. For my body is wrecked and I’m no Brother of thine. I am many layers of things you mock. Were that Jesus could hear you proclaim that you reject me for finally teaching myself to walk.

With many words other than hate you describe me a world that’s an endless Hell. With a vague sense of end times approaching us all, I’m walking on coals but to hear you out.

Where is my Nebuchadnezzer’s wall? Your explanation in blood simple scrawl. Daniel to Genesis to holy Qadosh; now Numbers as I burn in the thought that you implied I’m unclean and you preach and you preach and I burn so you look down at me like a pillar of salt.

I’m gone with the Bethlehem on fire that is silent in ash at the end of it all. Scatter me by the White Throne of Judgment and look on and see it standing so small.

Now Matthew and ten thousand words- you don’t know me. Galatians; it used to not be immorality, debauchery. We used to confide and find peace in reality. The ash floats and it rests and you never knew me.

Effi you are strong
Held together at points with straw
But string, and twine
Are everywhere they belong so
Effi you are strong

Effi, who I wipe a baby spider from her eye
Swaying, as I have her in her nest in my arms
Preening, playful, so pale and yet warm
Like yet has her form not ready been burned

Like yet has her form not ready been blurred-
Been turned over and over in my hands, and
The hands of some other passing estranged
Who make it their hobby to hold dolls in their hands, and
In the eyes of even those who would like me to “Stand
Back!” And who have many opinions on how you are arranged

Effi you are rotting
Left apart at points with straw
For fun. With time
Parts of you may be lost and gone, for
Effi you are rotting

Effi, who lays crumpled with termites in her dress
Making not a sound as I lovingly impressed
Teeming, infested, so green and yet cold
Like bathing in the attic sun, my raggy little urn

Like staying pretty, still, angled and borne,
Never thou forget from deepest-my-strands
Hair, sweat, longing and wrath to spare you an age
Kept from blood, for mandibles can course through your trunk
You are blessed as more tree than that of a Man
Which says nothing of your more feminine form

Effi you are broken
Simply open to the cold
For sun is spun,
Peaking around attic shafts in your home
Effi you are alone

Effi who they would all stone into the bitter ground
Making ne’er a thought for you as only I protest
For your baggy face I cannot live to see it harmed
You know I did not make the eyes of all the laughing rest

Effi, Effi, Effi, little things like you get lynched
Effi- and it’s them who make you little, it’s not us
It’s not them who lovingly drew you up to always blush
Nor the one who keeps you at great risk to his health
For the one who has you in your nest in my arms,
Has a needle- not some rope to tie you by the neck

Effi you are sunken,
Surely aching in the cold
Or warmth as well
Is scared of what is simply our love-
Effi you are hiding

Do you intend to dig into or out of the dirt?
To escape me, or escape those who see you a sport
And bring up their arms- And one shrieks and blurts
Like “May only monsters own such grotesque sort!”

Like what do you know of the world and of pain
And you’d go out there with no muscles to stand
And I know you- I know you’d get too warm, and
What plan could you make that does not involve us?
They make a special place, in fact, for little girls, like thus:
They call it Hell, and little bugs and string do burn so much

Effi you are safe
Held away from the face with disgust
For skin will crawl
From somewhere clutched inside your breast
Effi you are safe

Effi, who I stitched to life with bug legs, with ******
Who’s little souls will try to serve you, or your soul they’ll wrest
Beaming at the people who hold you from their face
Like soldiers- like claim many who drop you and your lace

I know in my heart- and I know my heart so well,
As I modeled your heart after all the love I form-
That I did not just make you, but I was made in turn
To make you and to keep you near my heart and in my arms
To store you and your comfort of rotting, writhing hugs
Far away from any evil constructs on this earthly dwell

Effi you are strong
Held forever with my straw
And string, and twine
Do everything I allow so
Effi you are strong

Dear,

Abigail I never missed you
I could always see you cared-
Not! for anything,
And everything that walks.

And I could never walk for you,
Dear.

Abigail it always kills me
That I would never **** for you.
And everyone,
And anyone said

That we were just the cutest pair,
Dear.

Abigail I never fought back.
One thing that you always loved-
Not! like anything!
And everything that kills,

And stalks, and feeds on prey at night.
Dear,

Abigail I always felt like
You could always stare me down,
Slam! into me,
And watch me come apart.

And watch me squirm around on the ground,
Dear.

Abigail I never missed you
I could always see you cared-
Not! for anything!
And everything that walks.

And I could never stand for you.

Abigail it always chills me
That I could not just sit with you.
And everyone
And anyone agrees,

But only after years and years.
Oh,

Abigail I should be nicer
About you and behind your back-
Not! to everyone
And anyone that knows

About you and the way that you hunt.
Dear,

Abigail I always felt that.
Abigail I tried to try-
Bam! next thing I
Know you have lied

But then I would just try again.
Dear,

Abigail I never missed you
I could always see you cared-
Not! for anything!
And everything that walks.

But I could never walk for you.

So when thoughts of scents of death,
Temperament, and light
Matches will of body,
Power, dreams of scattered flight

I find myself the sweep of spattered leaves upon the trampoline
I find my body resting in the morning in the breeze

And I brought my blanket, pillow,
Basic’ly my bed
And my fingers tingle, and
My toes and in my head

There’s anger, calming, like a feather swaying on the trampoline
I mind the distant yelling through my stupor and the leaves

So when screams of fears of death,
Shadows bent, and love
Chase my tired body
Out into my autumn hug

I fear that autumn and the world will pull me from my bed,
My trampoline; like a feather, swaying is my bed

And I should not scream, and yet
Scream and cry I did
Curled up and laying there
Under the sun, I hid

I find my body being pulled, I am not alone. The trampoline
Holds several bodies stretching, crawling for my bed

So when screams turn into
Chants of breath and writhes
I slam my head against
My bed, but up, I rise

Into the sky, with leaves behind, and tears left on the trampoline
I find my body leaving, like a feather on the breeze

To the East there was grown a garden,
West-towards sat some hedon-else
Wardsome, tapped out like Left hand,
Right and all else that God made “and Hell”

And it’s important to adhese sin
Within birthright; at marble’s sects
Or burn all an infant infects
From Devil hands if West there when

To the East then was grown a garden,
West: ******, locusts, snakes whom melt,
Formed a tether front His veldt
Left dare bridge its perfected ardent

There, in its East was grown a garden
Right, and rivers o’er its bless
Warning Left that river’s fence
Reflects what He let spare and sodden

Away are the mangled yellow rose
Tangles wilt into a little pray pose
Handled mist by wind and wrangled
To many a large little yellow rose pile

So too is the tree’s scatter sprawling
Hung onto branches’ leaf fall so causing
Their sweep between the mote debris. Float
Down as remnants of another sunless home

Eccentric, as time always throws with an ease
Centrifuge gently ordered around by the breeze
Sorts the bark from the copse to the outermost trough
Around concentrical cycles of rose petals doffed

Cry, little backyard grove green poplars
Growing backward so grass under prospers
Will sun now posture itself down with passion
For its green poplars die, distant, forgotten

Supposing which nature itself would have spoke
Which oak, and which posey can’t patter for hope
Symposing; the whole forest arrived in a room,
Blooms, and as such is giving birth to a tomb

Away are the ranges of colors of yellow
Rose-stained by little backyard grove cell’s throes
Ere charnel, with fits, all bled and divided
Planted upside-down so life fades skyward

And admitted into brickle cracks in its space
That enclosing trim, divorcing light from embrace
Like Methuselah in-negative, in retreat
In hymns spinning sap down a spiral of heat

Emaciated, strangled, so close to summer
Dry, little grave rose seeds, up from earth
Plume per some bracharchein-must despite
Succumbing to a simple sort of chaos of life

Cry, little backyard grove, don’t falter
Or falter, but make of your tears water
For creating, on other backyards, targets
Still sun, revolting and drifting like Argus

On pasture whose grass is a leaking function,
Incarnal fire, nulls, and its desperate induction
Implanted aen rayrounds aimed as devils did
Before this great plain, in its nucleoid, spread

Away basks creation that is happened, at movement
At once, and the gray roses too are a plumage
Their stems so simple at the simple end
Of winds-sent saccharine a brittle blend

Will whittle brown like solar lentils o’er a frond’s
Neck, face, its whole supple being peppered into yards
Of poplars, and all that life that all fades around them
Prayered, packed, all stacked: all grownup to heaven

All but the kindred, petrified, indenting pith’s jut
Being what the generations call silent. Be what
Some tree’s failing structure, botuled and pious,
Might impress in the mass ailing under its guidance

Cry, little backyard grove growing on
Top of, and little furtive leaves’ abscond
May, from many an old rose pile
Carry, till sun, onto fields not defiled

Releasing their collective last spray. A cork-
Like works in the shriveled bed of the world
And the trees can’t believe it comes down to the grass,
Their tension, dew marking green upon a new path

I recall when the word trolling lost its meaning for me
I used to read them, only young, and they were mere bullies,
Aggravators, mute as heathens in a crowded schism
Outside of some facsimilar, so-fractured cathedral
Which throws down its weakest goat to sate meat eaters

And, only young, my eyes were reading, that the heated sea
O'er breathe-a-plead, would rip a man's clothes of its histories-
I should look from the textbook as a teacher, stiff and
Of turning colors red, then white speaks "We've the primeval!
We’ll make a lesson of this computer troller!"

I recall, on the day which I learned of Nagasaki
And Hiroshima, I was young, and they were mere cities
Ambivalent or ignorant, I thought not of them, for television
Divined I look upon Godzilla, and her shadow on those people
And she could breathe in symbols, speak over meat eaters

And, on the next day, I could talk louder than any given Quasi-
Modo thing living in my school- in its townsquare dirt heaps
Where thieves met, and within which I developed egotism,
Some realer-than-thou lizard four thousand days from the fetal-
The position I'd return to had I not been awoken in an ocean that teeters

I recall, from my home, when I dreamed of planting trees
Who could gather carbon so hard they grew bags of money
I recall, in the news, discussing a new breed, a Bezosian ripple,
A change of the leaves. Wealth suddenly felt like the faces of evil
And I, of the sea-barren, most foolish of creatures

And there, I awoke. As a recessed feeler of waves on the beach
Where I felt like a desert, but looked up at those stories
Just past the condos, the quarries, and the Star of David. Arisen,
Was a God-scraping deathbringer in the craft of a steeple
Which reminded me of my days as a meat eater

I recall when the downfall of life was a guarantee
I believe the fires were first to feel our supreme quantity
Theatres were second to inform us post-division,
Your need to post memes overpowered human grief, then
Seeped into the survival instinct, and died on Pangea

But, before, from my time when I knew many heaps
Of pointless information, and empathy and insecurities
I would wait much a day for a starfull night sky, a dusty vision
Remembering me of my time when I knew not about the ocean’s ripple
Or the bombs. Or rises that be without all that falls after

I recall when the word trolling lost its meaning for me
I used to be a fast talker of untruths, of folie
And thought of this demon in the forums and the social systems
As even lower, lower than my type of canned drivel
It bleats like a goat on the steps of St. Peter

But even this thought was scattered, was taken from me
So all of my innocence would dry up in their Aries’
And Merriemic pursuits to define how to hold another in prison
Such was the troll, detained by the squawking, herd-song believers
Which, I recall, makes them but mere meat eaters

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I see not a
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human face but a dog’s
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human like a dog’s face
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human under at ten points of contact
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ under
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human eyes like dog’s
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀like
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human deeply, somewhere
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human-attempting

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I see, God,
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human, but made of fog
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human as a thundercloud
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human sticking as atoms lighting up, immediate
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀slowing now
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human multiplies like beeswarm
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀  like
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human becoming, and forming
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human-supposed like

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the compression of gasses
some slow{⠀⠀ the star we marble about
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ing eternity down
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀   down to
some sowing-time; a happening to the dirt

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ And see not a
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human happening to the face
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human like candle dissipating
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human under many gallons of wax
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀    under
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human reeling in the blastocyst upon it
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀   surrounds
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human cells like beeswarm like dog’swarm
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀like a predator like
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human kicking the candle behind me
⠀⠀⠀⠀Human-desperate

Come near me, you can breathe
You can make a century of me
Feel and decrease my any years
Brittle, hung, and brittle spheres
A crystalline commingle, come apart

“The Old Masters Are Gone”
Mares a voice from without
Me. And no touch and about
No others as old nor as devout
Brittle hinge; a brittle mount
A systemic expression with a heart

“We Are All Now Divine”
Lost, not— lost! We are calm
You may make a history, our psalm
See, and have faith new figures will rise,
Brittle. Bring too, brittle guise
In pretending your eyes pay care in-carte

“Lay Your Hands On Paracelsus”
Can’t you smell the reliquaire?
Like quarry-skin stitched, sitting there
Reminding us all of the ancient genes
Brittle making brittle needs
Stay judgments, fear, and the feeling your hearts

“And Bring Them, Brittle, Up To Rest”

because i must create the noises
in my sleep i won’t create noises
in that make is space dust seeming
to create something from deaf, but
collapsing ******

colliding in a semblance of color
or tune or something secret under
halftones in the black of space hum
soft with dust there, spinning, must be
unheard vertices

magic, maybe science scraping the
proprioceptive bottom like burning hair
stranding in orbit, together to wrap
noise into its little under humming
subliminal crease

slowly tease some crack; an ice exposed
from centuries knowing all the heights to
speak o’er rolling hills and stills of data,
grain into the simple cosmic after-fact
in a pin ***** steeps

i roll my eyes back so their iris
can pour a simple affect out it
curves cupping tension and clots
of noises, chimeric blood that statics
outwards, around me

because i must have hold of noises
in a system that can’t detect noises
in that pairing is voidness, clearing
painting nothing that can use of nearing
meaningless bodies

The fact that you can walk a street
And not a tree is not extinct
But somewhere else in cultivation

Seeds seemingly self-propagate
To satisfy an ailing street
Who’s assurance itself completes

It’s not that winter walk a street
And not a tree I want in lieu
Be that a whimper out a root

Leaves like a steam that waters
Leaf when it emerges from the towers’
Windows, many. Hours down the pavement

And not a mound of sweat betrays
Who’s cower branches inter me
Reach from the light to see a face

Creep, as it’s mist, but I’m inert
Seeds seem to cling so just beyond
That steam does never carry seasons

The fact that even in the patient
Love is sanct a street in *******
Lo, labyrinth the tree in sewers

But somewhere else are heat’s sensation
Icy and the answers deep, and
The fact that one can ask of love-

A tree who’s not a leaf undone,
But clings onto the end of year
Who asks what winter street we’re on

I’m nice, I’m fragile. I’m deeply unclean.
Two-faced, I’m writing about my mistakes
In a truest, maybe, snapshot escape

Even opaque, small, mocking pokes
Deepen that parasocial machina
From the black mirror, marching, it groped

I ignore my mind when it’s trying the most
I ignore my dad when he’s dying. I hope
The end is as transitory as it’s in memory

Then am I smearing a brainstalk Gemini
Their name around, on a leash, I spoke
Like ants emerging from the scaffolds of Babel

Like grotesque stats- like millions- Billionsthought
Those that huff endorphins as if in some battle
Half-twins and crows feet back-bearing taut

Rope, learning for the first time to tie them. Again,
in Wonderful Heat, or the West, and a Siege
Spanning, hilariously, the contiguous Bethlehem

I’m lost. I’m dirt-caked. I’m dragging a scene.
Chaptered; I’m acting it out in the mud
In a ghostly transparence before only your sun

Even fainting, trying to see my reflection
Deep- God, “Somewhere!” within the cogwork
Into ‘stead pulled the mud stains suction

I stir, my mouth sputters out with invicta
I breathe. For the sun, can I see still, is living
A last invocation, and its light dims the distance

to do what with
to crack every knuckle
to say matterhorn
patterns sound good
to crack my whole arm in
to pattern about
around on the floor
to feel the nice carpet
matterhorn matterhorn
to see it sounds nice
though you have to turn off
to mind not be bound on
by every to mind gone
pattern has pain gone
to matterhorn at
to sound pattern
comfort to brain or
to body as found on
the floor to do
nothings
to pattern
to melt to to melt to
to mete from crumpled
in pattern to shout up
to carpet towards matterhorn
to for nothings from pattern
to gone is for matter

Haley says Juniper is like a seed which, in his season, never flowers
Says he finds none beside the blossoms in the bench-worn courtyard
Surrounds, does metal which plants plug; deaf, embroiden, decipher
Does Haley, by talking to paper outstand the barrier what Suns for

Juniper swears Haley, from the trellis cracks, listened. Sweat-dent,
He jokes, like acidosis on the two sitting stones her feet frequent
Eroding because they grew, separate, together. He, a secret, and
She absorbed him, recorded, quickly became like the tangent

More like a seed which, all time, can’t flower
Besides, she can’t much see the blossoms within the courtyard
Front metal, surrounds only the smells of perennial ciphers
Comes Haley, her paper never tells of the shadow so felt for

Haley says Juniper is too passing. Says maybe the court is just desolate
Prays “Oh, fairy— one who, flapping, could some restore his deficit”
Hangared, windswept of oil lanterns which dangle, fictional, redolent
Her fairly good senses in put down that wall sitting, stasis indefinite

Juniper bellows out muteness. Stokes, quiet, her imagination,
But there is plenty to water or duck under inside his veranda
Aging, growing uninteresting even, though hardly unfortunate a
Situation is being captive to another’s not seeing your stagnation

Perhaps it’s her which, year-end, is desolate
In wishes, hope for prayings that float for her before his courtyard
Not wick in candles she can hear whisper sick, circular severance
From Haley and Juniper, whom to each other is definite

“Shine their shoes, boy.” Of ancient Ulm,
Or was it Hanover, or Vietnam news?

Whatever lives in a coptering leaves breeze flail
Burns, maybe, wrinkles over evening-orange contrails.

From ‘75, with backpack, an American teen.
You lay in a blanket that’s jungle green.

Born of tension, your luggage weared
Containing the last, probably-more, hundred years.

Pressured under coupled oceans that wash
Pepper, in the coasts, of gunpowder shells.

Every bit, godless, and landless there tread
Which is historically typical of a golden head.

You wait, with a significant loss in sheen
While much younger shoes uncover you from the rain.

“My, what a piece of ancient Ulm! It sits
Only in mud! Yet, what of the rest?

Whatever hasn’t yet lost its old meaning
That shining truth which, before, kept it going!”

Glossy, in all youth, in all sorts of sweat,
Heeded a call to consult with a death.

This set-on, and scattered, and ducked into flight
Mind unconsidered so decades might march out of sight.

Lo, quiet perforce a deep trench, or its field
Moving, not across that diptych unperturbed

Every hole through the air punctuates, shreds
The almost-last scream of a now golden head.

You run, run, run, run. Count how many feet touch the mound.
You envision how best you could look underground-

“Now, see: pressed up against its own shoes,
This thing of gold, it’s deformed and bruised!

Wherever we bore— past some trees, down a road;
Far from Ulm— we made a hole which, in it, erodes.”

Grisly, but plaqued, and so, covered up
The very remnants that resulted its death

From long ago, “This- It’s ancient!” some people say
Shipped back with laurel shawl now as its display

“Perhaps you are ageless wrapped in the old war.
Yes, tatters coming back are worth all the more.

Maybe, yes it was sent through so much wreck.
Before, far back it was born of some thread.”

“Shine its throne, man.” Of ancient blood.
That, on his deathbed is a golden head.

He showed up in the hills at our house made out of glass
He showed up in a daze worn of the past years we let pass
He walked inside knowing everywhere to step
He made only the sound of the depths
The depths
The depths

There
An absenting stare
Over fog lights in the hills
I drove to
Exhausting my last cares

I knocked
My hand felt heavy like a rock
I stood still
With the house
And darkness falling onto my head

Two figures
One took my rock
Looking past my eyes
The other in straight jacket
Poured her gateway dyes

Silence
And I’m heaving, sick
With a racing relapse
On the halls
Plast back my past

We let no apprehension known, there watching as he fell
We met the days as fastly passing even as he dwell
We doubt in him an ability to count his own missteps
We let a ghost of ours go sink into the depths
The depths
The depths

Unfurled,
Cracked, and catatonic
I sat then lay
Into a new black sofa
Detached from reality

Memory
Everything, once, I held
It was all at some point burnt
In a way to not entirely destroy,
But to experiment with life

With hope,
Betterment I thought
By way of replacing
All my body with stone
Disquality laid to ash, and such

Forever,
With stillness, a layer of dust
I could not see
Though I heard no protest
Of two I’d come here to expect

He bould into the black, the depths, and from him rose a fire
We did not put it out, but simply removed all of our glass so
He would wake again, not to face, nor to regret, but
We who drive away into the depths
The depths
The depths

You, I imagine you, walking silently
Beside me, briefly, and so I ask you-

Wait
It’s 4:29, low sun, deep Spring
I’ve got this wire wrapped between
Eating scraps, absorbing the means
To which I maximize a gluttonous,
A dispassionate, down-to-the-bone
White shadow hugging my anonymous face

I would think to take you, shaking
With my arm that has you held into my rib curve
To calm you, or myself climbing this cloudy hill
I’d remind you it doesn’t matter that I’m falling
That you are also not in time to catch me
Though still am I screaming-

Again, wait
We’re on earth, apart, you’re asleep
I can’t just recite the words to my screen
I can’t just jump out of life by myself
Here, under a cloudy new day, and a dream
In which we allow our gray shadows to meet

I would dare to hold you, press you
Over emotions that don’t come so natural
By God: who let you down here in half form
But, I’d say that, and laugh, you would know it’s okay
That it’s human to be born as an imperfect creator
Of love- of love feelings, connections and wires

I think I can wait
It’s night, again, day or
Passing the foothill for the nth-ever moment
I’d remember it by the hue of the shadow
That wraps, and I drift off and wrap you myself
You, I imagine you walking, answering
Beside me, this time I’m quick to ask you
“Is this our love that moves where the clouds go?”