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?