i have to be one of the brave
people
reaching out their arms

there is no wind but the air
plays
gently around my eyes

i step out
to easter
fallow
to second winter
under the archway
you find me funny

i have to be one of the debated
people
unafraid and free

there is no snow but the air
escapes
shivering from my throat

you follow
after me
after running
i find you didn’t raise me
even
for a second

you say i let you down; what
perch were you on?
you’re only ever dying in my poems

there are no words but the air
makes
connections i can’t make

softly
recalling
advice
to take my
time. by time
did you mean move on?

i have to be one of the some
millions
charting the night sky

there is no light but the air
shakes
light from inside my mind

i just cry
for even
the void
won’t take me;
in-between
the wrong two things

i have to be by myself
trying
accepting who i am

there is no wind but the air
at least
is staying here with me

I won’t tell you about them-

The plants, I mean.

But…

I’ve kept them all cataloged

Nicely!

And the book is little, and green!

Heavy. And there’s…

Vines that bind it together when I give them light.

Also there’s a lot of pages

Blank.

Because I’m bad at drawing snakes

Of stems, and petals new.

They grow so quickly,

Quiet.

Soon we’ll see a Spring-

The plants, and me.

And I can seek more than seeds…

Little rounds things that describe nothing of their root network

So I wonder if I should be around all these plants that don’t speak-

Though I do record the silence in a heavy green book.

I also meet

The ground, and the Earth

I think in my head how I could see the roots.

Or draw colludes of quiet life matter-

I think over and over.

I think, and the vines are not binding the book any longer.

Sketches that I spent so much time with

And their loving, long aged descriptions

Fall around me.

I meet the floor

Take all of my plants

And I run out into the thaw before Spring.

The Earth!

And your Sun!

I hold up my pages so to again bring life!

I’ve just drawn some pictures of plants

Many more blank.

The Earth

And the Sun

The ground

Seeds, and vines

Do not bind together what no longer belongs.

I see this

And I see the clouds

Folded quietly around the Sun.

I think

And envision a life.

Only without the plants to be my friends.

I feel

Like a lot is lost,

But in a tiny way

Like sort of a seed.

Carried on the wind.

Blown out of its deep, but fragile network of support.

Away from the book

Binding

Failed.

In those pages were pictures of plants.

I won’t tell you about them-

My friends, I mean

But…

I’ll float away from the Sun

Separately.

I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Chop it off of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun

No fun
And inward spikes along the skull
No fun
And many needles that can pull
Out from my gut. Many suture-making teeth
Unaligned and redefining what it is that makes me, me

I have tape on my body
Designating my body
All the parts of my body that don’t
Stay on for refrigeration
And I have no blood

No blood
And no communication, thus
No blood
May be injected and no blood will be discussed
No point along the flaccid rheme of plastic
Face-aphasia gleam. Like a scream of being me
And I no longer have a mouth

I have worms in my body
Reconquesting my body
From all the good that the doctor did
Before I am left on my own
And I have no fun

No fun
With a reverberating voice
Which plays off the worms in a delicate way
Who are symptomatic and symbiotic
And playing at taking my mind away
Reaching up in the way that makes me shake
Or forget for a second that the body is the face
And believe that scar tissue is a different thing who bleeds

I cast shadows of my body
Of my innards in my body
Separate that within me or just
Incise the brain’s connection
And I have no self

I have hitches in the heart of the body of my birth,
Burnt hairs in the heart. For something of that sort
Would recede in the stiff which retreat hundreds,
Thousands of wings just beneath my skin- Scalpel-
And receive them a light, receive them a glow. Set
Back the muscle, so receive them a hope in the light
And that leaves me far away, casting shadows at
Something new instead of something writhing apart,
But inside. Living, trying, inside-

I have nerves in positions
That would leave me in fission
Should they believe they are not me so
Fall insolubly throughout me
And I have no fun

No fun, under a winter’s slush, and a winter’s moon
Getting up to live in body unsucceeding on this earth
Getting off dusk’s transportation into an ocean current Oort
Sort of thing- sort of thing the brain thinks it must endure
Courted by endorphins into sirening, O doom
Dwells winged servants following a swell
Of themselves rides choruses, feeling the walls
Feeling the way this body grows a thousand smells
And stretches and oozes pus into the ocean current slush
I feel it all dry, form craters, stomach lumps

I have strung up scores of organs moving unconsenting while I sleep
I have unsent letters, and confessions, and an obsession with the Me
On tiny journal things, or stored in obscure folders, or in conversations,
Or lording o’re my brainpour down around my joints. More days sleep
Replaces personality; goring lovely caverns of flesh from my sides
And I have no fun

But silence. I have litres of melody hiding in the hippocampus
Sing-songy excuses for my pupalic inseparence
That turn into dry scatters- a bat’s ***** matter in a living cavern
My lungs and teeth shatter, and over sound gathers such
What makes a transforming music so more the flatter
And I have no voice any longer

I have cysts on my body
Get them off of my body
Let me out of my body before
Decomposition has started
And I have no fun

Waed, for a stain- a split second- gains strength
Shade of red amid a gloomy wavelength
Made rainbow saturated in vulture’s stench
Splayed, festering on asphalt and blaring outwards “Death!”
Waed- like reaching outwards, pulling at my breath

Aid not for a laid out system of cells killed,
Pomade out on the gas station pavement
Came He, vulture, for a mind filled
To unbraid scents, spent nights, days unfurled,
Aid He not even the shade between brain wrinkles

cloud smudge the carrionoil spill
i am scared- i am not- oh, how these thoughts fill,
cloud, smudge my carrion coil- just how still
do i lay for the vulture?

Bore, they, holes along me for centuries
For, He, deathly centered in my memories
Gore and tasteless fluid ley my heartsease
And tore slowly through my arteries
Or seeped sour ‘round like nectaries

cloud smudge the carrionoil drips
i can feel the rain- i cannot- it licks
waters mix the carrion spoil- just how styx
splits away the odour

I plant seeds in the gashes my
claws leave
In your skin I plant seeds where
air sees
Me plant seeds in the blood you
conceive
In your leaving you breathe as you
retrieve
Strength, like ossuary waters
I plant seeds in the current that your
life bleeds

That your life stops. You,
Stirring in ossuary waters
struggling under

I wonder where the seeds will eventually
breathe
In your skin I command they one day
eat
Away at your life sustaining
stream
In your battered keep of holes where
seeps
Strength, like ossuary waters
I plant seeds in the current where your
life leaves

Why should it matter, you say.

Why indeed.

I don't want to know you anymore.

It doesn't matter.

You would say I'm sorry you feel that way.

You good Christian boy.

Are you hurt?

Do you feel hurt?

I want you to be hurt with me.

I am not well and neither is this world, and you are not well.

Cry!

We should all be crying.

That you would rather ignore all of this. Hurts.

You ask what does it matter what you feel.

Of course it matters what you feel.

All beautiful and ugly parts together and trying to coexist no longer.

You would turn your cheek from an explosion such as me?

We will coexist no longer.