The spirit to the body:
“You cannot fall in love with this earth”
Gravity is not caress,
Breath, or the jest of birth
It is the yearn of worlds
An untethered God, Time
The insanity between the seconds
Of every molecule; delicious crime

Hands tire, expire in
The thump of the stars encircling the world
The lust of atmosphere, caring for the waters
Nestling in the dark soot of gravity, it curls

That memory, we drove into
The mountains, Autumn unfurled its burnt
Tongue and we lingered in the Us
(What God hoped we weren’t)

I’ll miss your touch when Time
Cries ENOUGH, the symmetry of hope
Grasping at my shoulder, my face
If only Life weren’t a forever *****

Constellations fling stars through
What becomes of me and you
The echo of colors; the first we knew
The blues and reds of avenue
What song sings the drunk, the
Bleary eyed shrew
That wretch with sizzling breath
Staring us in two
What but Time is the disease
That wrecks the view
Swinging with Gravity until
The choir sings Hallelu
Tick tock, tick the menus
And klieg lights and residue
Humanity is a sunset
Its venom, true

We live among kings and sorcerers and plasmic sonnets
and serpent-lined oceans and speed-freaking comets
breaking left around untapped worlds of ether
and crested hawks and tales of Caesar
and acetylene-soaked music (and the guitarist drops a match)
and pharaohs and arks and Grecian tracts
and the words of Faulkner and pianos
and gilded lilies heaving like sopranos
and foamy, crashing sunsets and Davis’ “Kind of Blue”…
Why in hell would I care for the evening news?

Time, Sun, quadrants of ;
Consist me, skin; Memory,
Rhythm on worn soles, the
Unfed bone machinery
The planets do not care
Their accidents pleasurability
Freshman, wisteria; slipping bookbag
College in degrees

A solemn mending
The orbit about her staring
Nine years two hundred twenty days
Of my soul endlessly daring
The marsh, or Time when it slows
The bloated corpses arose
Thistle bound, satin and soot
Heaven is worse than it looks

Atmosphere[at-muh s-feer], here the ALWAYS of breath
The KNOW of time,
Farming insanity from the rhyme of
Death, its shoulders doused with the soot
Of consequence
The spindled boys trapping crawdaddies
In a creek the
Singe of honey crusted meat
The scent of honeysuckle
Stained yellow with summer Sun
Their words undoing, undone
The poetry of mother’s sons