I Hate it when Time presses
its depthless face
against the GLASS and
I have to Fight the
urge to walk PAST the
bulbs on the stars
coming loose,
like all seas do,
and HIS hands, like they’re depicted in cathedrals:
carved from clubs,
dirt in the creases,
waving in the darkness

and wonder if I will LAST

Life is industry
Because there are 7.5 billion scampering casts of lungs and livers.  
Cogs of machinery.
Greased and repaired and tedious
Like the finest clockwork of the futility
Of money
Hoping elegance is eternity.

Watching trees fillet their kernels of the universe
into inverted green dissections,
the crazy killers.  
I at least ignore mine until they scab over and infect
And I develop quite the vicious intellect.

Sometimes I have to wonder if I itch
Because my blood wants to go
God is tired of me loving seasons
He just lit this cherry bomb and waits for it to
Explode

Distended star matter steams into earthen
Sweatbread because it only knows to wait
Until it is delectable and
What gave birth to bite except God’s
Testicles?
Vertebrae eat
Until they can mask infinity
Behind debutantery
And the seas’ feet where they drink

Lungs are His cathedrals, on this night A
Boeing 737-7 cuts a spotlight
between twilight and dream
Gods breath carving alveoli with a 10:35 flight across rib bone
and destiny
It is the curse of existence, trajectory
Neither sleep nor sunrise will stabilize me.

Eucharist, liken to benzoate uncoating stomach linings for the Time we wait.
We don’t breathe, we itch
We are not angels’ campfire
We are leftovers, crossstitched God innumerates, I mean if Gravity was just sunlight punching clouds for
Celebrate.
And I was anything but the bones of planet and the heartbeat of a Universe
not even childhood escapes.

Admit it
Your heart is an old light bulb in
Your grandmother’s basement
And it will never be better lit
Than what God you believed in
Then