I only just realized
what joy can be—
It is a small thing,
I think,

In the back office
at the bank,
If you leave the chair canted
towards the south window,
the sun will warm the small
blue seat around 11:45

It has always been
such an inconsequential thing to me
always out of reach—

But it’s there,
A quarter before noon
every day.

i’m pretty sure i’m losing my mind
you probably think i’m crazy too
but i swear (i’m)
everything that i say,
it’s impossibly
                 — true

except maybe you.

3…2…
nothing.

it’s quiet, but i still hear
i’ll always listen for the water
follow the stream (dream)
come back home

i thinks it’s a mouse in the bathroom

moving the old soap into odd places

and leaving bits about

for the cleaner to sweep.

this morning early we pinned that soap onto the bath board

I’m not sure if Mercury was in retrograde or if Sega was in genesis, but you slipped an unwelcome touch into my orbit & I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.

The Proclaimers hummed in the background as the aunties shrugged…

“Some people are born with tragedy in their blood.”

The nooseman approaches & with surrender on my lips, I say: “Sew me into the creases of your hemlocked hood.”

Tiny holes cut for beady gapes.
Do. Not. Look. Away.

The moon is wailing in chorus with mothers & brothers in hidden crypts over mountains of headless children born into snake pits.

800-588-2300…EMPIRE…today is the day we set you on fire. More cobra with desire until you suffocate on centuries of soul weight.

The ground opens up & the universe obliterates.

A spare bedroom tea set gathers dust in shadow of craven lust for more & more & more. The **** of a boy & the **** of the world. Holy rage steeped to liberation. Comrades healing together with blades unfurled.

No longer will we cower & beg for a piece of what’s already ours. The serpent’s spine rotting on concrete.

All hail the death of tyranny.

i feel like im rotting from the inside. like all of the little aches are warning signs i will never take seriously yknow and then one day i will go to the doctor because the pain is unbearable and they will find that my body has rotted to the point its unsalvageable. and i will understand that this is why everyone avoided me. like, i will finally say yes this is it this is why everyone didnt like me as a kid. the same way you grab an orange and you can feel it rotting before you even taste it. the same way that the skin looks the same and the flesh would look the same but something inside you tells you it's wrong yknow. and you will sink your teeth into it only to find that its sour. and then its a betrayal. its a whole other thing, yknow, the fact the orange rotted. because not only did that orange dare be sour, but also it dared co exist with other sweet wonderful things. poison them. and then they have to throw away the whole batch because what if it rotted too. what if it spread the mold or rot or whatever it had. idk. i dont even like oranges.

The voice of the audience
The narrator in the woods
The misdirect in subtitle
Exposition comes in floods
Foreshadowing
Foreboding
Before the final reel
Trying to leapfrog
The meaning
Before the big reveal.

And we meet outside the gate—

In the balmy evening with
the sonance of happy voices in the distance,
a dusky star softly gleaming through
The ever-open portcullis
casting damask
patterns upon us;

We there, barefoot, breathing.

A simple life, in cream linen
beneath the foliate ivy
in the brisk morning I am
out In The Garden—
Lying in the dewy grass
Perennial hymns on my lips
reaching into bee hives

Calling lord,

Lord.