GoldI don't want a heart of goldscraped from rock and stained in blood.
Two birds, One ThroneI saw two baby birdsmisplaced by overconfidencein the leaves, beaks opening expectantlyas my shadow eclipsed them.I searched for a nestbut the trees were empty wombs;fallen fruit fermenting in the grasswith the bones of thosewho had not lived to see the snow.A transformation ensued:I became an uncertain god,sitting upon an icy throne of indecision.Mother Nature was fertile and unfortunate,and I was unsure of what type of mercy to give.A mother bird appearedand I abdicated the throne.From her beak spilled the remainsof someone else’s childreninto the frantic mouths of her own.The next day I returned,my feet amongst bones and fruit.The little birds had vanished,their mother sitting in a branch nearby,singing quietly to herself.I do not know what it means, or if it matters at all.I do not know if divinity is acceptance or action;my ambiguity is a feathered creature afraid to spread its wings.Perhaps another uncertain god is looking down on me.
'just' friendsi am sickof the romantic relationsbetween everything--the rain can be platonicand the birdsong benevolent.i do not needto be in lovewith the world.
Cracked Shellsi.All the king’s horses and men graduatedfrom medical school with high honors(the valedictorian gave a speechabout a man that fell from a wall).You cheered for them,turning to me and remarkingthat science was a gift,medicine a miracle,and God a savior.I smiled and clapped with you.ii.I wish to speak with the king.The horses shy awaywhen I walk past themdown these formaldehyde halls;nobody taught the menhow to deal with grief.What is it with walls and headsWhy do they collide, whom do I blameWhen will this be over, where did you go?iii.I stole a horse from the hospitaland told him to take me into the sun,let the fire burn me through.I am ungrateful, unworthy of the manwho relearned how to walk and speakand tell me that he loves me with all his heart.Fuck science, fuck medicine, Fuck GodIt’s been a year and I wonder if Humpty Dumpty was better off.
At Least We're Happy In a Different DimensionIn an alternate universewe are having the conversationI wish had started long ago.
GeologistI learned the namesof all of the rocksso when the earthswallows me wholeI won't be lonely.
choking on your elegy(tonight, tonight --)our lips touch cerulean, and we witnessan exorcism of the heavens.maybe god fell asleep on the job,or maybe we were birthed with hysteria at theskeletons exhumed from our graves of skin.in other words, we refuse to be our ownsalvation.
Marinating in the Pervading Loneliness2.37 am sounds likeclenching your jawuntil a crack shoots downinto the nerve endings.The crunch of bonesplitting and separatingand shearing painup into the naive skull,that hoped for something elseto penetrate the malaisecreated by fooling yourselfwith love, with money,with smilesand words.It sounds like biting your tongue -and that flab of meatchunking onto the carpetand violating your chinwith its copperstench syrup,that stains everybodythe same flavour of red -This is what 2.37 am tastes like.Like the only warmth is fromthat cyaniatic bouillabaissecreated by swallowing yourself:your blood, and teeth,and tears,and words.
.the rabbits twitchin their sleep;they dreamof red bitten neckswet with spit,the birds dream of their eggscrackedand runny -the mice dream of hearingthat tabby cat screamas the teeth of life ripitwide open
.my mind said he wasgoing out to get somesanity, don't think he'scoming back becausehis things are goneand now i'm up to myneck in words that havesnapped cos i twistedthem all too far(it gets me down so much that it keeps me up at night)
.the seaboiled itselfclean andholy again,bones washedup on theshore,smooth asdriftwoodi lay inthe ribsof a whalea while,carve myname in thewhitewith sharpflint(in the corners of sand, dug my feet in)
.think i'm madas a hatter,just becausei want to sit anddrink tea with the deadfor a whileon a sunday afternoon?just cos i like totrace the patterns inthe woodwork onthe table with my fingerswhen we're talking,yes,something has beenhere before,and it's us,with words so wellused that they're nowdamaged andwe can't even tell whatthey mean anymore(still cramming them into the distance though)
MokshaThe face and body are mile markersThe weathered patina hard earnedOur lives spent in a time machine, bracing againstThe whip-lash of mortality colliding with karmaThis perpetual state of samsāric jet-lagThese ironies of Maya lost on someTake heart and pay no attention to the fabulistsIgnore the critic and the cynicWe were born only a moment ago A.S 3/14
curing deja vulost our latent heatexperimenting with paper castle skiesowl-eyedwe spread thin the ideathat ideas have consequencesand wore the night wet on our lungssupineas soft bulletins buriedold myths in our coaxial spines
.half my life sitsin this waiting room,dust on the spikeplant so thick that itfeels like grey velvet,i prod my fingersonto the sharp tips,as i sitwith a two week cleanjunkie who saysthis is terrible(i sign in, but i never sign out)
.i threwa sack overthe head ofyour dream,i marchedit out backto die(i want your mother to know that her hell is in my head and hips)
.slicing openthe tips of my fingers,four in one strokethen the thumba little flesh hatfor the spirit in each(love is dead, lilith)
.watching the skychurn itself thickerand thickerthe birds tireand drown asit sets aroundthem(no fight, and no flight either)
.tonight across the street i sawthe devil sneak into god's garden;he took trowel in hand, planted seedsin the earth, grinned real wide andshut the white gate behind him(gonna come up smelling of roses)
.i can't give youthatbut i can birth youa godwith my eyes instead,pray to him hard withmy tongue(take refuge when he wakes)
.there are a million different worldsthat have been built on top of this one, and i know this cause they whisper throughthe cracks of doors in secretto each other -i heard you're never more than six feetfrom a rat, eight from a spider andseventy from the sea, please, don't letyourself drift any further out from me(holy ghost, are you flammable?)
.hope you'redead in a ditch,cold hard hands growing weeds,hope you drop your heart with yourkeys and you can't get back into me, to the two marks you madebefore that one,hope someone smashes youopen pig and the air will refuseto lift up your lungs anymore,scurry away from your lips in the rain again,hope you're still trying to fix yourselfwith vodka and bare hands,hope you learn that if you take someoneapart and expect them to put themselves backtogether, they're going to have a few loosescrews at the end of it all,and jesus christ i rip the grass up bythe roots at 3am because i'm cruel nowand not because there's anything wrongwith my grapefruit(i know and know and know, only one i belong to is death)
.i noticeyou bite the skin ofyour lip, toowhen you're nervousor have nothing tosay -writing is startingto feel a bitlike a disease -just like your brotherdoesyou know you'reexactly the sameas him -one that all thewords in the worldwon't ever cure -i'll just have toget to know youthat way, i guessno don't walkaway -i want the foxto hunt the hound,the badger to cullthe human(let's take a walk down memory lane, let's see if i can finally ditch you)
SometimesFly on fast wings and smilebecause sometimes,just sometimes,you are quickerthan the sadness chasing you.