old light. there's
mold on your
information.

your me
is flipped through
photo album. i am

somewhere between
the solar spasms,
deleted and spatial,
****** off. holding

no grudge, i
just can't care
that hard anymore. all

i want is
soaring silent synths
and eyes, mine, closed,
holding vacuums on the lids.

poems write me
in my slumber
and then i forget them
later. sometimes they
are so good i feel like
this hell is something else

Your clear eyes,
a sea of accumulated raindrops,
started to ripple
as I touched the surface.

In your depths I dived;
neither sinking nor losing air—
never drowning despite the rough waves
of unchartered waters.

With no fear of trenches
as deep as the Mariana's,
or fear of undercurrents
as mysterious as the Bermuda's,
I sought further to know
why I felt more familiar
in the water than on land.

Floating, swimming,
breathing underwater;
I stayed warm in your gaze,
in the calm of you.

I found myself at home
when I looked into your eyes.

i am focused on the immediate future
the week is golden & sticky
in my palm;
i tremble in the midst
of cold,
nearly icy hours

the embrace of a ****-dwelling sweater
seems so close to the surface,
as if the small
ocean of my
reality contains nothing but a high, beautiful child
swimming with the fish.

i rain on green
fields beside massachusetts highways
& cows sleep in the brush
spiked with my
dew. it is
the only
safe place left

Where does one go
When their rock turns into sand?
My mountain has crumbled and
I am swept off my feet
Lost
          And adrift
                    In a sea
That I know nothing about

what is will
when the wind
has us. is there
such a thing,
i wonder. i
really do

i'm bad luck. struck sad and oblate
weary, dedicated to the swearing ground.
chivalric pulp, my pages
don't bind like they used to.

rhyme me sad. adder fluent, sistines
vaunt these heads of mine. but wise
enough to feel these molecules murmer
and mouth the corvid in the wellwater.

annihilated profiles in my coming wake.
i am bad luck and prose. slipped
my shadow, i walk a bare life.
not broken anymore. not here all the way.

don't canter.
never could.
haven't loved. will

of a ghost. hell, i see ancestors
trailing behind me
in a mass of quadruped brutes
black as the day i was born
and sounding a great horn
made of gold and unprophecy,
babblings of a river older than talk.