I give you this,
open barren palms
asking forgiveness

Shrouded, shrinking anger,
Pushed aside
Incontinent and alone
To breathe

On the surface of the water the reflection
of all eyes and teeth give
redemption, watching, waiting
No death, null,
void, no crossing,
no bitterness, just
Your life, My life
On canvas
Underneath the stars, hate?
I spit on you.

My darling, I have begun to dream
Of tractors, crossing
The river Jordan
From my mind spun a chronicle of death, foretold
I began to think that in 100 years, solitude
Will be afforded, there will be
No more tractors, Or
Lawnmowers, Or
V8 engines, Just
Silence, Love, So
I shall not wake you in choleric times, I shall return
To the memories of another; of melancholic insomnia
That *****, that unwritten
Love letter to the colonel,
and think, You know,
Earplugs may not be so bad.

"my hands
will never forgive
each other"
misery
but,
"my face
will always forgive
your hands"
mystery.

When the serpents swim, and the air currents breathe,
A blackbird will fall from the sky.
Her wings will be dank and *****,
matted,
with a mixture of blood and red wine.
Her beak will be broken.
Her eyes clawed.
Her tongue lashing
Her talons bruised.
Her bones crushed.
Yet,
She will stare with the determination of a thousand willows,
She will bore into the minds of a sordid plenty,
She will imprint her soiled likeness into the face of the earth.
And she will say,
“I
have
lived.”

Last week,
I heard you dancing to the waves in the wind.
I saw you singing of Greek resurrection, I felt you
thinking,
of how your wings would guide you around the world.

This week,
They whipped around your face and fought for entry into your eyes, Greece rapidly tried to retrieve the pieces of its shattered heart, and you
did fly around the world.
Twice.

Yesterday,
The wind could not cushion your fall,
your songs cried out to nothingness,
your thoughts settled on a simple,
Adieu.

Tomorrow,
I will dance to the edge in your place and the wind will remember me.
I will sing a platitude to Greece, slap him awake, hand him coffee, and tell him, “get over it.”
And like a thousand black doves, I will fly through the universe and corners of myself,
without you
because you flew without me, and I’ll go not once,
Not twice,
but three times.

But today,
Today I will sit, not with the wind, but with nothing, I will sing to no one and nothing,
and I will think about nothing,
but
you.

And today?
Today I ripped up a memory of you and
it.
felt.
wonderful.

Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.

Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal.  I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.

Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.

Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.

Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!

Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.

Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.

Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.  
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.

Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.

Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.

I know about lying on broken bones, beading into my back.
She was missing something.
She was lying on hands searching through the trench coat of a bathroom romance, watching butterflies melt,
She was becoming herself
At four thirty am I write her account, embroidered in a diary of lullabies,
“this is what death must feel like, being  left alone in a street screaming of footsteps and blacked out whispering.”
She threw deliverance, caked over old vengeance, out of the car window with daybreak’s kisses. She writes,
“I sit in the heavy sleet of the delta drowning in resurrection, grime from age wipes over me once,
twice,
The broken blood pools out of ‘I love you’s’ and islets.”
She slept with the darkness.
“Prayers don’t come for me anymore.”
She glitters, shivers, tactless as a teacup in an earthquake,
She is awake.
”I am awake.”
She documents God- "I feel God,"
- in herself. "In myself.”
There is a silence.
A burning, left, cold to dry alone,

This is for her.
Call it, my face, swathed in the impenetrable darkness when it is no longer my own, call it an aunt’s love when a mother’s doesn’t suffice any longer. Call it,
cigarette buds and elevator rides to death’s door. Call it power bubbling up from the violation.
This is for you; call it Cuban cigars, show tunes, and Marylyn Monroe;
call it misery. Missing, call it hues and paint, my life prostrated on a disgruntled canvas. Call it fate.

This is for you.
Call it liquor stains and tarot cards in a fit of ecstasy. Epilepsy, call it the most intricate balancing act of existence.
An unseen performance, a lyric with no voice,
“a cry in the night”
”a scream of supplication”
The hunters’ march to death, the Holy Grail’s melting between your fingers, civilization pouring through veins,
“death, destruction, life, happiness, Azrael, Abbadon, blood, Rome!”
“I don’t want to feel this!”
Call it whispers of unspoken meetings and witches in the night, threatening,
“I know you!”
“No you don’t! Leave me alone.” Recognition. “I don’t want to listen…”
She writes,
“I loved you…
On purpose and…you left me,
with,
myself.”