I had a dream I die
I ride a taxi into hell
I'm sweating but my driver is kind
He taps the meter when I arrive
Says, "pay up," gently
There is no tax

A flock rises from the magma
My eyes narrow from the heat
They glow as they sing
and cut me when their wings spread
Red hot and beautiful
Birds made of knives

If it's empty does it grow?
earthless roots reaching out
floating idly, belly up
dreaming in a glass of water
rich, dark soil
a sky with no roof
freedom beyond walls
and the sun without a window

My boyhood pocketknife
Sits in the bottom of my bedside table
My skin is healing
But I still feel a little cut
I thank God every time I leave
Say goodbye to flat land
the long stretches of road
I forget the peonies
but they still bloom in me
My old backyard is littered
with noise and ***** snow
Cold trickles into the lungs
Slowly, like it's afraid to let go
Each exhale is proof we're alive
A cloud of condensation
curling away from mouths
Small, sleeping dragons
in an even smaller city
where all the jewels are gone

The roots of our ghosts lay in brittle earth
drinking up all that's left of a dry well
hungry, savage rainclouds
open-mouthed and empty
tongueless and sharp-toothed
the jagged claws of thirst
we can't swallow what's left of our conversations
your salt water lashes cling to each pause
the smallest ocean haunting me
storming a little
pouring deep into the spinal column
stripped bare like bark
peeling sheet after sheet
of collapsing microscopic webs
spiny snapped synapses I wish I could tear out violently
break, trash, ruin, I don't care
while caring so profoundly I can't breathe
I whisper car crash questions
and feel so far from myself
I can't even tell if I'm asking you anything
like thunder in the distance
lightning for a moment
each spark failing to jump the bridge for souls
a suicide note when we tangle ourselves
an EVP, "remember when **** was better—"
white noise between cracked lips
the loudest silence, too
what are we even listening for
this static electric current can't leap
from my mouth to yours with a kiss
even if our hands touched
even if you keep crying
even if there is nothing left
even if we planted ourselves right here
and we can't ever grow again

I have to shout to you over the noise of the television
In the form of a million other eyes
Standing, waiting, weeping
Watching our country slowly drip with wet paint
Stained in the color of loss
Peace, by piece, by piece

Smothered by your haughtiness and weak foresight
I have abandoned hope to the intangible concept of your knife
slitting the throats of a future generation
cutting out their docile voices
so only yours can be heard