there is a humble road that slowly goes up, inching into feral skies, rising high with conscious, living intent.

it is sustained by a preternatural order, allowing for, yet shaping, flux.

you must -first- be utterly grounded, rooted in, in order to reach these airy heights.

ancient scraper of skies old, babel-proofed from power grabs, confounding our words to capture this coveted ascent - convey

my sore
feet
along.

collecting quail eggs
in the morning summer heat
eleven spotted shells

onions and roses
pushpull fools
sweet something's

whispered

into your
torque

we'll endure
the shade of
spent flesh wakes

together

or
apart

crushed parts
flush limbs
**** mar

row

the felt
swell
of me

till it comes hard

i wish
i were
bright star,

far away.

but i am
blight scar,
here and

now.

i am
going to die
yesterday -

and all the feels i get
from this
strange world

will
go
with
it,

leaving my cracked
seashell
at your feet,
promising oceans
within.

my skin
is thin and
swimmingly scrim.

the moonface
pushpulls me.

i am
moved
too much.

i am
not enough
mover.

i am *****
given,
all too often.

i am
not
me -

i am you
in your supine
palm.

i matter
little.

my
molecules
are
fast
becoming
transparent,

vibrating with the sound
of your voice, which

seems real
-so real-

real
like
when

the kitchen
sink
disposal

runs.