As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.

We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.

We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.

We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.

We are not products of God.

We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.

a tear drops from her eyes
and it brings no cause
though it quivers with emotion

and the stars do not shine brighter
when polished with her briny tears
but dim their glow and listen
listen!
to her sobbing
but wait
her capillaries will burst!
stop it!
stop it!

its translucence
its opaqueness
the inherent contradictions it produces
and the images it emanates

so while her eyes may open
they are unfocused
and gone
and the click of their judgements is obscene
because her soul has escaped

where has it gone?
she swears she saw it just a moment ago
just a moment
just a moment
just a moment

how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept

neither rest nor return
are purpose

neither love nor hate
are purpose

neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question

perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain

it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god

and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent

but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs

childhoods are forgotten
mere bonds simply left to rot
bewildered and betrothed to the very idea
of a more golden sun
and glistening moon
but not all the planets in the solar system are close
and are in fact very far away

words are to mean nothing
nothing
left with the wind
blown away
good bye! adieu!
I shall miss my friend!

and where is the blossom
whom I met so long ago
on Mars
on Jupiter
the promiscuity of proximity
reminiscing
within the shallow walls of the cave
that drips drips drips
to the past

and history becomes bloated
with subjectivity and
a sepia undertone
so how can we see what went wrong?
how can we learn the implications of each movement
made by our lips
fingers
each deep breath
that coincides with the galaxy
underneath a waning moon

there was a sparkle in her eyes
I saw it
I saw it
no one else paid her any attention
and only I noticed the apple cores of her hands
unfulfilled
starving
hysterical
barren
barred

so she resorted to magic
the crazy stuff of existence
like the wheat she stashed in her sandbag heart
and when it found her not
despair shook the earth
around her sorrowful body
permeating disillusion
confusion
immersion in nothingness nothingness nothing

lonely lonely
and bottle caps launched from her fingernails
from the spiraling stems of madness that rampaged through her bulging pulse
with piercing shards of nothingness nothingness nothing
splitting her glowing veins

and sweetening her ever-kind
clueless
knowledgeable
brain brain brain

and where was the world?

the snow swirled around
like the carousel of her dreams
unmentionable
attainable
covered in frost
dusty frost
and all she needed was a hammer
to crack open the frightening lock
but she giggled
and her friend giggled
and the snow swirled ‘round
and they found themselves buried
gone
but they could see more

for what surrounded them was
transparency
clear as beaming sunlight
sunlight that shone light on their cheeks
and snow that filled their throats
with pain
under a lactating sunset

and the snow and the snow and the snow
which grew
which perspired
which hardened
which schemed
which never
ever
melted
so that deer tongues--
those sweet animals--
were the only products of fruitless searches
that locked the friends
together
under the brilliance of a muzzled rainbow

I know the flowers are alive
because I have witnessed them gossiping.

They only do it when they think
no one is watching.
The truth is that
they are never alone.

Like praying monks,
they bow their heads to the ground
and whisper about
the sunflower’s exceeding tallness
and the rose’s self-adoration.

I think, if even the flowers
look down
when speaking their minds,
what hope do we have?

The first time I saw the sun
I held her in my hand
and let her burn through my fingers.

My hands are still burned
and I can feel her light
shining in my blood
every day.

Oh, how it feels
to glow.

Rabbit and Hopper skipped around the clouds
until it rained.

With the precipitation they descended
to the world.

What they found astounded—
Earth was clearer than clouds.

Everything so defined, so certain.
It destroyed them.

Rabbit and Hopper then descended
to the underworld.

Everything here was nebulous and
strange. Monsters, demons, and the like.

After the fifth sighting of Lucifer
they decided to leave.

But the guard would not allow it.
He told them they were prisoners.

Rabbit and Hopper did not understand.
What is the offense of fallen angels?

The first time I met God
I was alone and afraid.
I was nothing.

He took my hand and
showed me something beautiful
and then I fell in love.

He began to ask me for things,
my fingernails, my hair,
and I gave willingly.

What use are these decorations
when the body is but a vessel
to be used for good?

Finally, just my heart was left.
It only stopped beating
when he tore my heartstrings apart
for his repast.

I really don’t know why the sky bleeds
except that it means I am dead.

My grandma told me once that death is like
falling asleep and then you wake up in heaven.

But if this is heaven then why is everyone
covered in blood?

Perhaps she meant that death is like
bathing in the truth of yourself.

That it is pulling off your own skin
until you are nothing but a milky stone.

In that case I think
I have yet to cross the gate.

I am stuck
peeling off my skin forever.

But I’ll never truly know because
my grandma spoke in code and whispers.

She was my favorite ghost.