tired because of the things he does,
always remembering where i was.

these fickle things nostalgia brings,
icicle fingers touching ribs—stings.

no more Breakfast tumbling out of a Hornet's basket.
just soft thorns and gossamer wounds. only the ravens that kismet.
only the coffin cuff-links; and the splendid Pit.
only the margin for Errors beyond
your Religion...

and the woe of it.

i pray to your temples
with every slighted
touch of forehead

"i am the scientist sitting on the pew
holding a textbook bible.
i don't question you."

i have built a
rib cage chapel
out of love and letters.

i consume both love
and liquor in the dark of
Monday's Lucky Bar.

holy ****
holy ****

am i an *******
just an *******


preach love beyond belief
*** and no text, purely grief



say to hold the one you love
hot neck, cold shoulder, lack thereof.

close my eyes.


today, the thesaurus revealed
himself to me as
my enemy. i
do not want any words
to describe this. keep a
perfect sonnet of all
feelings felt until now.
keep everything
under the radical
complex. prescribe me a
boundary condition.


open my eyes.