infinity's children

we fainted into the pavement of our digits, making coded signs of infinities passed by infinity's children, licking the dust off the roads that returned us to this high place in the desert.

we spoke to the cast of cactus dwellers, unrequited water sharers, who hoarded pasts, and begged for a liquid birth that ended, and never began again.

pencil message

weaving in, or weaving out of, the threaded tongue, missing and kissing each other's eyes, as if moving to the last village of twelfth - century indian.

the boys beset and throwned upon metal tinny trash receptacles, caste thine eyes upon dusty and oiled oceans, filled with toothy beasts.

there was a pencil message, magnified in the bottle of speech. you threw it out, to play alone on the sharpened beach, while we let the waves nab us and possess our histories.

the last bone

All those bubbles that feed to you from my veins, each statically charged to inflict it's torture. Each carries your corpse out of the eight foot drop, but you still smell that which the microbes smell, and hurry for the feast.

It is not so easy to turn a head when the truth explodes nuclear-white in all directions. Here we stand, waiting for the vaporization, picking our teeth, with the last bone. 

the beast speaker

the beast speaker steps up to the podium to deliver a helping of wavering gravy, thick and starchy, his lineage feast, pardoned for being with penis.

I stick my nose in the earth and suck in the particles of our pasts, dustings of our memories through osmosis. you where there and here and back again, while we were mud and dry coverings speaking like friends in a dirty coffee shop.

was it Jesus or Jésus, standing in the cellar door? punching at the angels with a wrecking ball? buying sacks of forbidden fruit and passing it, or, passing as, unwelcome advice?

and you, a traveling bearer, with a basket full, swinging with abandon, my holistic cup runneth over, swiping my lips of rotted wine drops for your memoriam.

The Towheaded Boy

I dreamt of a towheaded boy, with a mud that had caked in his hair, beard, and face.

He ran what he called a zoo, but he was the exotic one.  There was only playfulness in his being, and it was salt that I saw when I looked past his beauty.

He was superbly male, and unabashedly unashamed in being so.

I wanted to hear the world in his face. His scars and tattoos sang songs for me, and made me move where the mud and dancing play together.

reactive

fixation asphyxia,

lynched up,

a rattler in the throat,

macularpapular and anaphylactic.


a tin foot on the self-medicated eye,

an ocular mucosa,

bound.

her mother

her mother
sits, with hand ties -
a clean laborer,
a soiled fiction teller,
cemented inside, cell upon cell
clinging at,
"let me nest here?"
nursing mitochondrion,
a torch bearer.

genetic symbols

a bumbling muffled, laugh-lined accounting on long green sheets,
the abacus sliders of hideous obsidian drooling infants, wide eyed and crusty, awakening with silvered nickel pens, mirrored to a fine-tipped finish.

but who rights whom with self eruptions as if ants bursting from small mountains?

whispered listeners like a lions ear, our drums full of pride?

or, genetic symbols, like a crown of unrelinquished ego?

question

what do you do after you discover the coast where you're the ghost and you cant walk on water yet?

owning sheets with eye-holes, scaring children, like crawl spaces below the porch with lattice work and cob webs, the children you never had or wanted in spite of the high return on investment?

popping out of places like jobs and towns and weed strains, with silly names like the one on your birth certificate?

seeing, but not being seen, except as a name, any name, name it and own it, so it can be forgotten easily and without guilt or shame, like another earring in a jewelry case filled and filled again with incidentals?

Her

0 speaks to 1, "we are binary. can't you hear me?"

0 cries for Her circle, 1 stands looking away guilty, numerically, while 0 paints on a shaming face.

"we are binary, see my connective tissue!" this 1 is linear, this 0 infinite. One stands as a fictitious erection, zero stand for a continuation that never sees itself.