Poets should never make ghost children.I whisper cheap metaphors into your needy ears until, like funeral flowers, they rest upon the atlas of your mind. You with your napkin love letters and cloudy storm eyesare the only one to ever make my scaled spine quiver. But, my veins ache from consuming too much ink. I am gagging on black blood as it spills from your fingertips to rest upon my lips. You asked me once if I could read the words carved into my limbs like prophecies of you and I we were written in the universe of freckles dotting my thighs. I tried to plot constellations along this neurotic cadaver skin and only managed to contradict you.
MaelstromI smell winterin your bloodline,the thick throttle of crimsontrapping the snowand the crows' last laughstretching out the wirestaut and high over me.I smell the coldin the treeswhere your face still hangscaught like antlers,weed-boned and blankin the thin sunshineof a drowning man.And your kissesstill reek of snow -frost chewing through my tongue,cleaving to your smile,blemished and beamingin the surly lightleft dying under your thumbcaught in my maelstrom.
infinite circumferencespoken in a tongue not my own,half-understood debates intoned;masks of godhood and shadows thrownbetween the bodhi and dogwood...half-understood masks of godhood.all is defined by nothing's space.blind eyes can see the shapeless face.axis mundi stands in no place.end holds the roots of begin's tree;blind eyes can see axis mundi.
I LOST A WINDOWI found a window in the rainbut I had to redefine the sky.I found the answer in a bagbut despondency I had to buywith the sense I culled from drawninfinities erased by dawn. A window, an answer, the clarity of a cancer.I found the nightgowned elder Maydabbing garden green with yellow spongeof dandelions; ailing May'ssacrament of season will expungeany scraps of monotoneeye time. My time. I should have knownthe almanac I wrote would longnot to be the poster of descent,and would besmear the writer's wrongscenes of coal-shaped clouds in what was meantclandestinely to protectthe window I alone detect. A dasher, a dancer, a June bug's sick romancer.I contemplated greenhouse life:give the sun to me and I will peelthe skin of heat off while it's ripe,leaving yellow blindness for its reelto the rhythm of the timethat matters.
captain's logby now the sun's gone red,swollen and yet colder;the earth, still, burnt and dead.extinction made bolderour race; reaching the starsupon quantum shoulders.but have we reached too far,we few thousand ridingthis life-raft-killing-jar?space is not abiding;we lack maps decryinghere be dragons hiding!our prow ether-plyingas the navigatorflails at planet scrying.i've grown to fear we have played traitorto the veiled cause of our creator.