i won't

why the fuck

can't i be great?

had i roots and leaves

i'd sure as shit

save you

or a few

in my shade

played in a prayer

we laughed and

floated forward and

we were ten again,

squinting at angels

in the dusty distance

some seven or

eight hillside stars

kicking up sand

and spirits to the South

we flickered and flared,

glowing with hunger and

hope

playing in a prayer til

we faded out, too.

The Calmness

Were there tears in my eyes, I'd be none the wiser. I looked forward: everything was dimmed and dewed–a beautiful glossed quality after the downward gush, the delicate burn. The thickness in my neck and chest stopped bothering me after a few seconds. I floated for some time.

Had I been sweating, I'd be none the wiser. I looked left and then to the right: the fabric covering my arms shifted with a darling pliancy. For what seemed like hours I noticed each thing: each blink, nostril flare, finger twitch, abdominal spasm. Now: the blue-dark from behind my eyelids versus the wax lens nature of my sight were nearly indiscernible, nothing was different. Everything was the same, only greying.

My saliva and urine mixed wonderfully within this makeshift womb, a temporary temperature difference was a fleeting distinction. I waded and sank in my medium, this reclusive palette of warmth and waste. How merciful He must be–I'm breathing my own spit and piss and all I can do is smile!

a hollow hurt

did she hear a choir just after she leapt?

a hymn, a pretty progression

was she able to hear it over the air she

shot through?

what song, what sound brought her

to the bottom?

i wonder if she held her breath or

shut her eyes.

did she wish she were winged?

what wish, what woe bought her

to the bottom?

did she laugh or cry or try to whistle?

a hollow hurt after she plunged for

a lifetime.

did she cover her face before she stopped?

pulp of noon

i hear a

choir 

as more of your

body

unfolds.

my limbs dream

and lift

and stretch,

strung and hang

how easily you

breathe,

nude in the pulp of

noon.

how cruel i am,

hovering in a

hushed hallelujah.

neon warble

wanted to

warm your bones

the way you

cooked mine with your

neon warble

you are the

constant climber, the

long down yodel.

the notes as stems,

sip the self-conscious

sweetness poured slow

quiet now, a

chirp: the softest

coo, the amber

hush of evening rests

in a burgundy meniscus