You can’t cut silence with light.
It’s not that fast
You’ve seen Death in reflections
It’s where autumn leaves cross-stitch a path

I cannot **** God head on with helmet
It takes glances of a short sword
When words skip steps and seasons stutter
The universe is math blocks slowly toppled with
ROAR

Oh, Christ
Am I death?
Everyone has always looked at me so
Eerily
Perhaps my mother split me with Time
I am Gravity’s cantileve.  
An imaginary house I revisit in
Capillaries crackling with dreams

God will die from art
All of the decanted kerosene

That way she taps you and grasps, says
"the universe is moving me too fast
And I need to hold on"
Every half second God rebirthing (imagination)3
(imagining)3 the (imagination)3 of imagination’s (imagining)3.
There’s something about standing before the sea
and a picture of a solar system,
Something about the bare heart of youth
daring Gravity for the poetry

Disintegrating integers returning thoughts to ether
Distill my Wednesday morning
into
Para morir;  primate;  Genus: mammalia
The universe explodes every atom I
include

So much then for the coffee,
This indigent soul revving his bloodstream
My body cannot rest on this earth
All life expanding to fulfill the dream

Lithe, pharmaceutical muscles regulating microfiber hairs
Draw from the primitive neglect and sin
A clarinet changes the chemistry of champagne
Inside Humanity again

A stock infection of planets and galaxies
and their debris
Small enough to be e coli
and atomic dreams
Beading with the warmth of breath, persisting,
Naming dragons and archers in the infinity,
The cocktails brew people at the seams
Their sentences clapping the breeze
Into a day, or a season,
or her hand leading

If music were Arrhythmic it would consider us
On tinsel wire lit into net to beads
Eternally reaping
The clink of solar windmills
Echoing, echoing until it becomes flesh,
Tired, ringing decibels
Filling with water and becoming eyes
So that Death is a character
Swimming just past the horizon;
Collisions become heartbeats
Become locomotive thoughts
Charging westerly winds
Until our faces hone, stormed
And born.
Only my soul is left to fall,
Cygnus x-1 in a pool,
My life a distant call
Catalogued by the stars,
Noted for declination; classified pulsar
My words are dust in another’s space
But they recall fire and I blazed;
                                              Numerically, years;
                                               Physically, rage
And the only thing that breathed were dreams
And they sail, eternally, past the rhyme (Time)
They’ll still float when I return to haunt you;
They cast no light but they guide and sigh.  
Alive

Maybe our souls explode
Rip through the cartography of cells
forming reefs forming anodes
In the key of Cassiopeia
We sing free of the bones