the guttural sound of grief cleared its throat
all forgotten will be recovered
in sentiment
sentient emotion
evocative cries
the river dies at the ocean and reincarnates
so it is with words and poetry
a recycling to circle back
a replenishing to continue filling
prose be the restitution of cosmic karma
dust reclaiming its birthright

                               everything
                                                                                everything
            everything

I've heard verses set against verses
for the sake of thrones
dust says
                 verses are the natural material of power
decanted led
                         purified gold
a heavy mineral
the foundation of understanding

art cut its ear
and the heart still bled
red   -   blue   -   violet
a primary mixing you can feel
without senses
     listen with bone and marrow
     see what shakes the sinew
     taste the transience of life       in living color
      orange and yellow and green
     smell the salt, it lives in you
     evaporates through goosebumps to be felt by others

you can write yourself to nirvana
if you go through the stages
  if you shed enough stanzas
   if you surrender       and accept

walls keep appearing
am I a prisoner
  or the warden
am I protected
  or locked in
what's on the other side of separation?

    all of life has been
    a building up
    to no end
    but self-improvement is *******

under the preface of safety
my reality is circumscribed in fear
I've created freedom in my restrictions
but I am still shackled   .   .   .   .   .   to something
growth doesn't even feel good anymore
maybe self-destruction is the answer
a means of leveling out

        walls keep appearing
        but now
        I am taking a sledgehammer to structure
        I am mortaring every brick
                          until I am a flatland of freedom

Maybe I’m born to set things free—
to let them go, and
watch that distance
slowly swallow them whole.
Maybe (surely) my talent is
cracking my heart, little by little.
(But only during the thunderclaps
so no one else can hear.)
Busted but beating,
I fashion its fractures
into art by
filling its spaces with
vibrant pigments and
sounds that satisfy.
Good as new, I tell myself in
a tone that’s all too familiar,
and proudly display it for anyone
willing to have look.
They pick it apart with their
curiosity— their invasive wonder.
“What do you call this piece?”
they’ll ask.
With a smile, I reply,

“Yesterday.”

it didn't start as a counting
1 had no more purpose than 0
I felt whole before awareness
          consciousness is a rolling pen
          stumbling through ellipses...
now
       sentences serve as benchmarks

incidentally     I am building to something
incrementally     I am cramming margins with loose pennies
          indented     new paragraphs detract from my sum
          indentured     no change comes from this work

  t   h   e   s   e     w   o   r   d   s     s   p   r   e   a   d     h   o   l   l   o   w
consumed space                                                         an empty metric

as it stands     I am at 77 words
yet no further than when I started
       sometimes the goal is a ploy
I am hemming myself in with empty
periods are a euphemism.