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.

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

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?

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

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

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

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

I support you
Wherever you leave to
Tell me goodbye first

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 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 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’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.

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.