though with due reverence
i kiss the graves of dead poets-
the breathing kind must disassemble an atom to gain a fleck of praise.
no i don’t like it when they say
“i let you hurt me”
treat me to porridge filled with kerosene
i’ll let you
drag a razor across my gums
if you kiss those fickle carmine streaks
that dribble from my tongue every time
i find the audacity to speak to you,
tint me with spit and break me into cannon fodder,
i know that mirrors
and **** pipes are real,
right now i despise everything i’ve ever written
looking through the stories
of a million untold lives.
i feel my words
as hideous black mixtures;
foolish curves and games of association.
paint them on your eyelids,
and build another sorry ideal
to taunt myself with in the twilight.
remind me that i’m not a nag
and i’ll build you a boat made of
frilled marigolds & thornless roses,
i’ll float us along
and talk about how
it upsets me
when i see pieces of my father
mix into basic interactions.
my fear will leave
to go sit next to triangles in heaven
and i’ll wait for a scarecrow from high school that i loved but never slept with,
i’ll wait and think of your eyes.
since meeting you
i’ve understood the impulse
inside of a grave-robbers mind
when he pitches his shovel
and looks at a mound
of soon to be upturned earth.
i’ve wanted to take every action potential
and place it in the wires on a telephone pole,
watch it spark and yell timber
as tree limbs give way
on the route to the roof
of the home that i slept in
when i knew how to sleep;
ill wake to the sound
of the ceiling caving in
just to think it was creaks on the stairs
during christmas day morning-
i’ll look up at leaking pipes
peaking from the insulation
and ask them for presents and chocolate.
to undo the part of myself
curled as thin twine on her finger-
that pallid tissue paper skin
wrapping a network of crimson lighting.
veins turn violet
underneath layers of that kind...
my words cannot excavate every color.
yes your eyes were
a freshly struck match;
brief sight before returning
to cold outlines of breath in the dark.
i’m returned to their glow
every time i wish
i could isolate a melody
that feathers my cheek
(scribble the chords on a napkin
for when you get messy)
you know i’m deaf,
but my eardrums still quake
at the sound of falling pins
and dancing angels.
4 A.M My Lai;
in the lowlight
colors move off my skin at different speeds-
i’ll smear them into filth,
plastered and permanent,
for my face to be scanned like a barcode.
no more ligands
uptakes or exchanges,
just a wall,
a wall erected inside of me,
that rejects all attempts of a raze.