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.
DifferencesThe asymmetrybetween you and meis poetry.
My Personal PreferenceI don’t careFor pretty heartsI like the onesThat are scarredStitchedAnd taped togetherBecause those are the onesWho have been through HellAnd have the courageTo keep beating
asteroidi.she is an asteroid,collisions coilingthrough belted dressesthat skim past stomachand smoothe her flawsand soothe her faults.an axis awakening;bend like this, flex like that,aspiration reminding herwith angry rotationsthat she is still presentin her heavy astrosphere.ii.she is seeking absolution,absolut and freefallenshe flirts with the night-club lights like aurora floatingjust out of reachunder an ashen skyatlas stained with atlantic salt,there is no hall unmarkedand these nights segueinto self-imposedalcho-asthenia.iii.she strips her face acousticno make-up, no need to wake upan hour early for this adagioaddiction to adding,always adding more to her skinto hide the parts thatgasp and poison her visionlike asp assassins.be quick or be dead,she moves so slow.iv.she measures minutesby an aftershock timeline;stunned autumnal by brickscrushed to powder,always underfootshe's stuck between the faultsas they line straight through her world;iv pie
Life Hides Lovethe whisper below your wordsis your soul telling methat you're starving itthat the end of infinitycan't come quickly enoughand i whisper back, my dear,that life hides love deeplyin the most painful of placesthat love finds its waythrough the mazenot by looking for lightor dark, but bybalancing and buildingboth into somethingtall and climbable, yetlow and comfortableso when curious eyes risepeer over the wallsand realize the labyrinthstretches into forever,there's something softbetween you and the groundto catch youwhen you let golove is bigger, sharpersofter than what any selvescan want or needit's our all-scentionthrough, above and below wallswithout ever leaving them, it'sour becoming a stationof peace along the way
the things we cannot knowand darling, there are thingsi never told you; like howi blessed you while you were sleepingin the hour before the end -asked the universe to watch over youand conspire towards your happiness, towards you,covered you with be brave's andgoodness and mercy and light,fingers touching your spinelike a rosary---and my darling, time is a flat circleso you are still sitting at my kitchen table,still asleep with your head on my breast;we have already come together like waves,repeatedly, and dark against the sky;you have yet to walk through the july nightto kiss me on a crumbling riverbank;i have yet to know if i will see you again,and how and where, and when
TiredI'm so very tiredOf this daily routineAlways the same thingDay after dayLife is greyAs dull and boringAs it can getWhat happened to my dreams?What happened to my passion?Why can't I liveInstead of just surviving?
Masked Pain Masked Pain Bright eyes, big smile. sobs silenced in haste Bursts of laughter ring out tears stifled within Grab my hand lets dance while my soul drowns in sorrowWe'll jump and touch the skymy heart sinking... sinking ... This is gonna be a blast! don't mind my shattered heart. Can't you see I'm all smiles when really I'm crying inside We're 10 feet tall! though I feel 9 feet under Isn't this the best day ever? the pain seemed to go on forever I hope you had as much fun as I had. I can barely contain the turmoil inside Goodbye my friend, let's have fun again. Hurry! Leave! before you see my pain. Alone... I'm alone now.... Good... Let the mask fall......pain... all there is... is pain...
untitled (broken records don't have names)my fingers flutter sunrise butterflies,floating in the morningas it breaks through the gloomthat came post-gloaming.but i confess,i have no graspon what to do with daylightthese days.you were a drop of sunlightreflected in my cloudy-sky eyeseventually you became toogood for me, and i gave upmy waxed wings are still intact, butmy shoulders are too sore fromcarrying this deadweight with anobnoxious, obstinate heartbeatand how are you faring this golden afternoon?you will never answer and yetmy mind loops broken records,asking as if you could hear.light halos the plain beneath my feetbut i shy away from sunshine,an icarus-inherited fear of fallingor just ofletting go.because we were supposed tobe something beautiful, somethingworth falling for(or you were, at least, and there isno way to ask if you fell hard enough)but shattered cds still lie on the floorcollecting the sunlight that idon't know what to do withbecause i can't spend it on you, anymore.listl
Vesuviuslone silhouette in an arctic expanse,suffocating del(e)rium, suffering the sound ofdearth, of deaththe deep breath of Thursday (wood day, would dayever come)white is still white in the cradle of nighttea party for one, brush of lips on white chinaa nib kisses white sheets andfreezesnot to savour, but to cling to eternity frozen in timebreathe in. breathe out. move.notes eruptshooting up, fire shoots though arteries(sp)utter with ashen hands and chokethrough wood smokecharcoal lines the abysseight letters blindsided Pompeii.
default dawns1.windshields floodedin aqueous lumensin ruminating half-startswe press our cartographscloser to human formswarm of failed livesand unweathered stormsgod help usas we bravelymourn2.solidify a circle of wry smilesthat verify our circuits are worthwhilefinal breaths can't be taken backand your tact won't serve you wellwhen your strained tendonsimpact the seabedno weeping here, lovethe salt does not providea place for confided truthor wasted youthor broken sternumsonly a terminusfor acidic sermonson proof3.look at my expert failureand tepid futuremy tea leavesget crushedin my molar massand swishin absinthe leaksbruise, you aremy sweetest endeavorand i sweari will maintainyour violet smirkand the brilliant ashof your charred grass skirt4.at this point i feel likesurvivingbut that has not alwaysbeen the casei wished you had destroyed me,broken both my legsand scoffed at my searingthe glory of a hallelujahfrom the comfort of dirt5.face flec
AsylumRing sparkround the greycorridors -shock start;are the patientsstill in cells?
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