To shake dust from my pretty
child
i must mystify minds while, molding
pre-paved tile patios:
give the sheep’s pen a four wall construct
A-RISE above the morphic
and bellow, to comfort the feet.

Im stabbing quarters into my activation plate’s extra exhaust
to ignite something.
Spit some carbon –

Manic moments, move a myles like me to the metaphysical mirror.
And it is not this one that reflects,
but to the duties my appendages embody i –
lack expects.
Do due – Respect.
to this Chthonian carriages; my dermis quite the copy cat.

to say the body is made in the images
of a cosmic titan is overly abstract.
The big bang was an aftermath of a flatline,

“so whatchur telling me is that even the void gets tired?” (it says)

my guilt was relieved of its cage and given
new duties.

Project itself on a man with open eyes
searching for answers.
Close that third mind and let them
truths seep from the almost always
clogged sinuses.
Snore even.

the evacuated court of my son’s illness.

the blind man’s
missing
eyelid.

the grief, the broth, the reacquired thrift.

the dispersed body.  the hotbeds

of skeletal
trauma.

the dance music as mother’s
chthonian  
darling.

the sorrow method.  the rhythm.