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.

sunset's incarceration

one hole, one nail, buttressed with muscles,
used for tasting sticky verbs,
a crucified lover hangs on every breath,
do you hear the sacrafices?

hills high, or maybe only drunk,
walk step in front of step,
lined up for the sunset's incarceration.

blades

oppressed footsteps,
muddied dreams we woke from,
lives lost but always interconnected, owning our doubts and flailing history like the whip that is,
Our Story.

these blades,
creamy brown with winters last strangle,
lit this morning with anticipation,
and the promise of green.

stories

this fire in the sky,
has no childhood stories of alcoholic fathers and depressed mothers.

a maple changes clothes,
autumn and spring,
and isn't pee shy.

digging up earth isn't the same as a tweet.

when you look upon another,
do you see the moon,
or her history of space landings and conquests?

we woke to the sound of our breath

we woke to the sound of our breath,
the first lie, crying for the comfort of the womb sea, biologically aware of loss.

the bloodied sheets are stripped, wrapped up in us, making ghost trails held up by pencil shavings, tools no longer used, gathered and ground down.

pardon the illuminated from circus clown coined phrases, awash in memes, speaking posted news fast foods, over-calculated careers in ownership.

give us this day of bread, that's yeast still rises, and saves us from ourselves.

there is being!

there they stayed, flaming cathartic wings, tiny pieces of paper, on the currents, asking for favors, finding tongues sweet like pie filling.

the sapling branch, tosses about, holding on to each beat, the timber timer, the sprout looking for the suns glow, usually finding shade, in the selfishness of age.

but the budding holds the truth, as roots tap the mineral questions, the answers reverberate enlightening the now! there is being!

i

dreams begin with a touch on a shoulder, phoned in with a lover's kiss, a laughing awkward moment, snow falling through a ten foot high picture window, sculpting an Us, a We.

and by the sea, you say pretty things, in dreams, time and tense are fencing with smoke, here with rings, last minute flowers and cakes, and I Wills and I Dos.  WE sit upon our mountain of illusionary monuments.

i am flying now, a moment unconscious leaving the grounded, realizing my special powers, before knowing i don't have wings or jet packs. the i has a little dot, as We, tied by knot, is not a capital.

but flying, and mountains, and seas of embraces are sugar plummed fairies, dancing candied fantasies, while the alarm is calling from outside, those sweet eyes so marvelous in mine, now stone.

these children

give them love, then let them go,
these children.
a constant consonant,
bred with passionate participles,
dancing ribbons of particles,
light parties in birthday candle offerings,
wheeled up animes,
pitching tents with summer bugs, cookouts, swimming in adjectives.

love these children,
then let them go,
growing up and spilling over audiences, reverberating adolescence,
greedy kids of adverbial agendas,
sneaking out, late at night, stealing keys from languished languages.

these children mean things,
let them go,
electronic formats, experimental mates,
long lashes, flashing us, dreams.

these children ...
existing like messaging apps, wrapped contextual fevered babes,
bathing in vowels and s-sounds,
sullied silly youths,
always looking away.

Felled by you

Felled by you,
a wooden loss-leader,
a lumberjacked and severed space, notching my dove tail hole, this chest.

A male crow, showing his under-blackness, like the steely girder of flight, constructed by and mangled together with a cold, barbaric ferociousness.

Eying the horizon, the wind a funeral pyre, like fingertips on a silky smoke of mindfulness.