SupermassiveReality never bendsto human expectation,it simply does its thingand becomes the consequences.At times it blossoms perfeclyin the gardens of our creation,but when it dies and rots away,we may have been the poison.No result is guaranteed,even when thoroughly tested,but life is all but barrenwithout the seed of risk.And in the end,strange beauty growsfrom feeling thingsbig enough to break you.
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,this, our neighborhood of galaxies,in which only a single staramong billionsis even remotely reachable.And we tell ourselvesto dream big.That hard workwill get us there.But on the cosmic scaleour collective capacityis nothing.For every star in the Milky Way,all four hundred billion or more,there is a galaxy.Even the Local Groupis nothing.Yet since dreams are orbitalwe hold our breath to reach them.And when we perish in the vacuumthe stars still burneverything that matters.
Forest fireWe were snaking up the I-84through Deadman Passin the Blue Mountainsof northeastern Oregon,where stories write themselves.The trees are evergreen, you said,defiant spruce and pine and firprotruding from dirt and rocks,exclamation pointsfollowing the death of everything else.I recall a membrane of cloudsat the apex, a reminder of bordersthat should never have been crossed,as overanalyzed by a tired mind.It may or may not have been there.We penetrated the veil,the first Chevyto sputter onto the Moon,monochrome and lifeless,under a radiant crystal sky.The fire had ravagedthe land to the boneleaving us trappedin the rib cage of the world.Something else descendedinto the desert below,but it was no longer us.
AwokenFor years I slept with open eyesand fibrous dreams, cut into shapesso real to the touch.It took a shock to wake me upand shed my baby skin.The cold is raw now,honest and lethalto a naked body,freezing wordssolid in the throat.Light once imaginedshines no more.Love once whisperednow rings hollowamong the echoesof the dusk.
Why the ostrich bleedsI have oversharedenough.
StarpulseTen foldsof singularityaround and aroundthat lucid pain& sing acrossthe great dividelike a pulsar,a throbbing star.Let them hear youlong after you fallthrough your heart-holeinto the never/ever& keep them wonderingwhy.
Visitor's guideIn small-town Americathat biker dude at the local Circle Kwill greet you every time,by name, even, after a while,and he will ask you if you're OK.This is not an actual question,but that is all right.In small-town Americayou should not ride your bikewhile wearing a shoulder bag,hanging like a koala bear.A school bus will eventually pass by,the kids will laugh their asses off,nice Mormon bros will call you "nice" and "bro",and a '74 Chevy will nudge you into a ditch,endangered, like a koala bear.In small-town Americayou should not just turn left for the hell of itif you don't want to see a giant old manstraddling a John Deere, wearing nothingbut nearly swallowed shorts,massive gold-rimmed Aviatorsand a double-barreled shotgun.You should never ever wonder,where he keeps his extra shells.Small-town America.I was a stranger,but you spoke to me,and I wish I had knownhow to actually answer.
MissionaryI’m ready to be used, you said;but you’ve no clue what I could doto you if you let me.It isn't a matter of control,a matter of fact, a sense of the matter;it's the thrill of losing them all.Will you declare the samewhen I gain the bend of your thoughts,or take your latest hours for myself?The turns you take yourselflead you down predictable roads;I choose to close my eyes.I want your hands, your mouth—not your eyes, or even your concern;just the weight of you over me.Let's draw the blinds and seewhat primal tongues our bodies choirin the cosmos of the dark.
DepartureReason runs dryalong the Eastern shorewhere NYC fingersfor the mainland.The man who wentis a complete strangerto what returnedfrom a different state.Now he just watchesthe land drown below.Everything elseis already gone.
.she'll hold him tight tonightand dread the coming mo(u)rning
a picture of perfectionShe was a painting;not a Rembrant or a Da Vinci...much more vibrant than those, she wasthe fade of Monet,her quirks just shy of a Picasso portrait,and at the same time not quite shy enough.She was a Van Gogh landscape:full and bright and articulate and beautiful-but a real mess up close.Like someone forgot that when you make peoplethey're supposed to stay inside the lines.
Night SkyPaint me a story of words,the clouds and sky sit as a attentive audience.The stars outline filled with memories of our epic journey.Hands will be joined together underthe light of the Haley’s Comet.The man in the moon will stay hidden in the moon,we’ll seek him out while sitting on our picnic basket.
Mask Pt.2Dissolve these demonicMasksWe wear,And we'll seeWe all look the same.But I've foundThey aren't easilyTaken off.I've found it too difficultTo undress these thoughts,Instead, I wrap themIn jackets & scarvesTo match this coldWorld.
caesuraSea foam layers salt ringslike age lines on beached birch wood,shattered shells scattered like treasuresacross soft sand that shifts itselfinto hiding between bare skinand shame.I watch turtles hatch and meanderlike men toward different beginnings,the veins of better thingsetched like hieroglyphson humpbacked shells,and I can't help but wonderif maybe I should start crawling, too.Instead, I pick bits of sea kelpout of half-decaying seashellsand watch the sundip a goodbye to the breeze again.They say you can hear the oceanif you put one to your ear,so I tilt my head and listento the whispers that beckon fromthe bottom of a half-rememberedworld.Lofted on a breezeheaded out like a ship on calm waves,phantom voices bickerover which promises to sell me;I hiccup heavy heartbeatsand wonder why empty wordsare so much easier to swallowfor the broken.
GardenWhen I lay myself downOn the warm grassAmong the flowersI gaze at my reflectionIn the sky I'm falling intoWhat is leftOf the person I was Eyelashes flutterAnd cheeks flushI dream of faraway landsBathed in sunlightAnd gems Freedom in my brainSparklingI am stuck in the gardenOf my life
Caesura--C.Sea foam layers salt ringslike age lines on beached birch wood,shattered shells scattered like treasuresacross soft sand that shifts itselfinto hiding between bare skinand shame.I watch turtles hatch and meander like men toward different beginnings,the veins of better thingsetched like hieroglyphson humpbacked shells,and I can't help but wonderif maybe I should start crawling, too.Instead, I pick bits of sea kelpout of half-decaying seashellsand watch the sun dip a goodbye to the breeze again.They say you can hear the oceanif you put one to your ear,so I tilt my head and listen to the whispers that beckon from the bottom of a half-remembered world.Lofted on a breezeheaded out like a ship on calm waves,phantom voices bickerover which promises to sell me;I hiccup heavy heartbeatsand wonder why empty wordsare so much easier to swallowfor the broken.
hymenopteracompassionis full of surrogateslike those brushing in the yard;accidental flowersI would grant them their aspirationone last, exalted screambefore the crisp disintegrationto be a crystal in the honeycombsome edge of necessitynot yet worried off to the nubI do see youand rememberit was me
BalanceI'm sorry but there is no balance here,No perfect key,To put everyone into harmony.
AsylumRing sparkround the greycorridors -shock start;are the patientsstill in cells?
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