success

I stopped thinking and it came
it was that easy
like slicing flesh and bleeding ink
perhaps a lucky break
maybe never again
but tonight I sleep on a bed of words
and for me
that will always be enough

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trinity

my skin believes in fables.
it prickles in the nighttime,
soothed by the crackling hiss of fire
warmed by the way old crones
weave mystery from the mundane.

my bones are atheists.
they sense their degradation,
feel themselves grow fragile
brittle and ready to break.
they know no god but entropy.

my mind is undecided.
it swims in molecules and bathes in electricity,
not understanding its own workings,
parsing the outside into its smallest parts,
awed by the fury of the whole.

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in the dark

in the dark
I found my skin
wanting for touch
my hard body
real, fibrous, unbroken

in the dark
I saw myself spread
across the infinite
breaking into particles
freed through death

in the dark
I suffered, dwarfed
by the void, crying
soundlessly for mercy
I could only give myself

in the dark
I cried for help
and kissed the hands
that helped me
through the night

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flutter

the wind has a message
it passes through the trees.
they wave outside the window,
organic semaphores,
singing in a language
I know I can hear.
the trick is not to listen
with a fine-toothed comb.
the trick is letting their flutters
move you like the wind moves them.
the trick is not to wonder
too seriously who sent the wind.

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spot

with my legs up the wall,
crucified to the dusty
floor,
I feel infinite.
the cat licks the soft bend of
my elbow, prickling me with
his whiskers,
while my blood rushes backwards.
this is a time
for appreciating the ceiling,
chips of long lost paint,
the naked innards of the
smoke alarm.
it dangles there,
untested.
would it scream?
and if it did,
would I stir from this spot
where the world is still
at last?

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there is no North

the compass spasms,
hunting the center
leaving me dizzy
breathless at the spin
in my chest.
I keep waiting
for everything to settle
in some pattern
that has a sense
I can discern,
but the fog grows
like mucus through
my lungs, thickening
with every breath
until the path to shore
is shrouded from my
sight, haunted by
the shriek of indecision,
singing out a siren
call, the only pulse that
guides my shaky steps.

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apprehension

a moment in the future
leans against a wall,
waiting for me. its arm
outstretched, its spindly
fingers scrape the soft
underbelly of my chin.
the hour is known, but
the minutes leading there
are labyrinthine. my innards
tremble, sensing their return
to that darkened room where
voices swell and moan, where
they will spill beyond me,
leaving me defenseless
in the face of my self.

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rev

there are mornings when i wish this brain was broken down
some old machine that needed warming up
a beat-up truck you shiver in on January mornings
waiting for the heat to kick in so you can stop
feeling your bones. there is no space between my sleep
and my day. these neural networks hit the ground
running. it is all i can do to keep up.

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last rites

suddenly
i’m in my home
familiar chair
the coo of my companion
rubbing his tail
against my leg.
just a moment ago
i was horizontal-
some strange reverie,
a deathbed daydream.
circled by faces
seized by terror
faced with going home
for the last time
I reached out but
could not decide
whose hand would be
the last i held.

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moonrise

i chased you up the crater wall
your giggles echoing along
the inside of my helmet
i could see the flash
of your golden visor
as you turned around
to tease me, faceless

at the rim, you leapt-
your body splayed
against the stars
you called out for God
and in one syllable your joy
gave way to fear
you’d pushed too hard

i am alone now
on this pockmarked planet
watching your orbit decay
waiting to see
that holy moment
when you are home
inside the sun

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