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Michael 2d
the pullgrab
the uplift
the swallow me whole
I choke on the warmth of you
a pocket of air trapped beneath the ribs
tugging and expanding infinitely
as if there was no breastplate
and beneath is just the heart
a quivering bird nesting
enclosed in barbed wire breathing
I dig in with short fingernails
what is this skinshape
what is the encapsulated story held in my marrow
why is the muscle so hard to scrape from the bone
I’ll be a little boy forever
with scabbed-over knees and a pink nose
burning eyes that have forgotten how to cry
Michael 3d
remnants of a star
bits and pieces strewn about
death like a child’s playroom
littered without consequence
abandoned kaleidoscope here
mirror fragments there
blood splatter prisms
heaven smeared like paint or jelly
the color violet for breakfast
bright red lip taken for granted
crumbs of the bluest Indian summer
trapped in this grin of fire
pink gums and overturned snow globe
the body of confidence lost to the floorboards
glitter impossible to sweep up
even more disgusting to hold
shining universe adhered unwillingly
trapped between sticky fingers
Self-sabotage.
Michael Sep 26
The last real poem I wrote was about
was about

there is no beautiful way to say pain

what a shrill cry
a thousand sirens
I have always hated the way
my mind speaks before you
your words get
they get

there is no poetic way to say drowned out

the labor of each silence
like chewing on metal
my body unfurls so involuntarily
wildly and largely
the amount of space I demand is
the space I need is

there is no kind way to say immeasurable

every tangle of fire licks
the heels of passing gentleness
I pry open the shell of us
for a hideous pearl
and hold in my hands
the stillborn body of trust
Michael Jul 5
if I am myself am I the silk dress
or the blue water of the eye
trickling down a moon of skin
this sunset color lingers
chapped
puckered microscopically
eyelashes catch each bead of light
diffused glow
even distant hills flicker
undulating multiverse
translucent overlap
giants fading in and out
what’s the difference between mist
and a slow exhale on a winter morning
the belt buckle drops to the floor
and I shiver
it drops against the spine
and I curl against you
my palms are the diameter of your stomach
I can’t pull anything in except your shadow
and you remain
warm and lonely
We can heal.
Michael Apr 23
in flew a little wild finch
and I sprung to chase the demon
a chatter riddle sung
taunting fast fingers but faster feathers
we knocked over several chairs

I likened its shriek
to the memory of a nursery rhyme
it did not steal
any of the best plums
from my mother's pie

it was abandoned upon the counter
amongst the spilled salt
steaming and untouched
despite the belt buckle warning
I had been too determined

the bird was now gone
fluttered through the open door
swept away instantly
like a ghost
or shadow

shuddering against swallowed triumph
my sore shoulders and weeping skin
blue thumbprints the color of my eyes
I felt myself still whisper,
"what a good boy am I”
Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
And said, "What a good boy am I!”
Michael Apr 8
tie
with neat knots
(in a fashion that is
inexplicably
laughably
me)
the winding red thread
(that holds so much significance
despite fear
despite fire
despite blood)
around the neck
(because
although I can’t control it
even pain must be
organized)
and with your hands
(which would
knot neatly with mine
if I let them)
pull tight
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