drag it

that way

across so much of me

in need of coming open.

that utensil is a convocation.

i have seen so much,

doing my undoing

in a matter of lines i draw

and draw and draw through it.

these, the transgressions of my body

assume sagging

just as simply

as more unbroken flesh.

my bathroom mirror

cannot bend nor mend itself

back into existence

as you or i do,

becoming human.

Did someone crank up the gravity?
It's getting harder to smile...
Like my lips are being held down by weights.
Feeling as though I am being pressed into the Earth.
Crushed by this neverending game over...
It's becoming harder to smile.

Let alone, breathe.

torn free from the ground of
pregnant ideas and withered
internal dialogues.

aloof in the face of destiny, crying
for refuge among the disowned,
the dismembered, the disinterested.  i
alone exist in the maelstrom of abstraction
crafted painstakingly through my ages
and seasons.

a mind as sharp as mine
to raise me without feathers
and place me
among the mulch.

i blanket my canvas with
woes and worries alike, neglecting
the foul-mouthed begotten son
arranged among the pillars left standing.

crooked trees and iced stone to
vibrate
through these ears of clay.  

i miss the days of youthful
ignorance and exuberant hope shot at my
future like a cannon of pride
and confidence.  

today the final summer flowers exhale
notes of sweet becoming, ever mingling
with the hum of nature's eternal embrace.  
the bodies celestial in ambiguity spin and
swirl in irrevocable sincerity.  from rise to
fall, through night and naught, the world
recurs again to weave itself anew.

There are houses on this street filled with wolves.
He-wolves and she-wolves and wolf-whelps howling for meat
Scattered like snowflakes across the neighborhood.
It starts slow, and ends with “I lost my temper” “It was their own fault”
“All the better to see you with, my dear.”
Some of us are eaten up, and some of us grow wolves in our own bellies,
And some last long enough to meet our wolves down the line.
What does it matter if you become the wolf or not?
What narratives are left to us now?

the soul inside of me
is growing far too big
for my body

My pen is dripping
from my heart and soul,
hoping to grow
a bit more beautiful
each day.