now that my days over boil with teeming
and nothing loves me so.... I must love You.
i must not restrain my whimsy, but rather
conjure amaranths from dead soil. Happy yet deflated -
i must come from Somewhere I have been ....  

or all places.

or else, be in the clutches
of less Beauty.

underneath the moon's fingernails
you will find all the evidence you need
to pin the crime of passion, that is the world -
at the doorstep of the Purity
that wrought the flesh
and all Sol's avenues above us in the blue !
above the very tiny crowns
in the snow.

I take it with a grain of salt
Our Heaven is exhausted.
And we oughta' be more careful
with our carelessness more often.
don't read me like a book
and I won't shelve my deeper feelings
And I'll promise you
No Promises
Love has no way of keeping.
We could be reasonable
or risible....
Both silent and indivisible.
But I can almost taste it
as we waste it.
Now Life's become
unlivable.

Our Heaven is exhausted...
and maybe... maybe...
Hell is too.

my mother opens her chest
and tells me god put a gun
there for when he comes back,
i protest the right to carry
outside the city lines
even though i've been
hurt too:
her wine cabinet tastes like
retribution and hope,
her red 4 days old open seal
tastes like ******* ****
20 minutes later,
when it's just me, the dog,
and a lukewarm drink.
don't put ice in wine. i've
learned this.

you know, i don't even
pick up bibles when
i'm ****** up? i cry
into tarot cards that
are vague and lack
comfort and pages
and pages
and pages
of lackluster
fake sunshine

water to wine to water again

my dad's the alcoholic,
nice ******* try,
big guy,
you're not
even speaking-
i have a dissociative
disorder, *******,
try me when i'm
feeling less real
istic.

consigned to the mirth of flame
and a thousand shoes; we waltz into grinding beauty
delirious and unsaved. we yearn for all graves
that open from the inside... that we may embark upon
untold follies and haul our stones to our stars
to smelt a new god that refuses to answer.
but the question is a worm
in His Truth.

A thousand wind turbines stand like men
on a hill in Texas. Each with a red eye which
blinks in the night. A thousand men stand
like wind turbines on a hill in Texas. Each with
two blue eyes, shut the entire night, the entire
day. There is a chapel on the hill.

"everything you are
is a product of all your interactions.
you mirror your friends
or you mirror yourself."

heaven may not be a place on earth
and you may not be oppenheimer,
but now you are become death:
destroyer of worlds around you.

clothes got soaked in rain.
dont know why i expected
them to smell like salt.