phoebe song

my playlist ran out on the radio

so it's just the phoebes singing in the citrus trees now

it's the whooshing sound
of passing cars

the world coming alive all around me

i'm sitting in my car
drunk and unemployed
waiting for the sun

it might as well be a firing squad

i have this tension in my stomach
swirling around
like the storm in jupiter's eye

and i feel so invisible

i feel alone

i don't want to die
but sometimes 

i think it would just make sense

sovereign

sovereign stance

absorbs the orange waning
of a butane star

i call it a
collis isthmus

i can feel the meat forming around my eyes
becoming a face

one that i have never seen

infinity
in the hair i push past her ear

mars ascending
through a crack in the skin

and it is red

and i knew that it would be

on the riser

eons pass

before the sandals return to the ground

that same smile

leading me to the edge of the world

and in full frolic

watching her halo sink into the hills in the distance

she is a dandelion seed on the breeze

a small girl in pirouette

a dead paratroop in the sky

time-travel

a year of sleep

so utterly full of nothing...

i think of my friend

putting pressure

on my neck with her hand

stifling my carotid artery

and everything goes black

life skipping ahead

just a tiny bit

to find everything just out of frame

the world applies pressure to my artery

and i wonder

when i'll revive

the tall grass

i dream of a sprawling glade sometimes

shimmering verdant waves

wishing i could go where the breeze goes

and a song of nectar there

like mother's milk

where there are no monsters

a song for the carrion flowers

a disappearing song

a dog-eaten child in the tall grass

binary

our binary eye

returned to the sun

the inadvertent

pieces of us

little glinting affirmations

little swirly parts

like world polarity

like uncatalogued debris

staring down at a shredded photograph

wondering

what it used to be

miss kitty

sheila exists in the neon lights. twirling and descending by way of the stainless steel pole at center stage. she falls to earth slowly. spinning like dead leaves. the color green all around her. like saint augustine grass of some glade that she has never seen. her heaven blasts several decibels above voice level. and it feeds the pantomime. the eyes going supernova all around. in the surrounding blackness. the void of patrons. her darkness. her black space. coupled with her like tar pits and skeletal remains. black as black. thick as coagulated blood. and thick as thieves.

death

i saw phobos and deimos in a dream. tethered to a toddlers wrist. i'll slip away from myself eventually. we can suffer for all i care. i'm not sure if you're real. i feel sick inside. i dream about the kind of love that can stick between my teeth. how fermented my breath can be. my world putrefaction. you're there. you smell like fresh cut stargazers. and it is lovely. it's new. and it is a different kind of death. of dead flowers. purple and white and yellow carnage. yellow like the sun. and i see your wet hair. in a memory. matted and hanging down. encircling my head. counter. intestines dangling from the bellies of swine. myself sitting indian-style beneath. and i know that when layman dies. we will be beautiful again. and you will be as pretty as the daffodils in the spring. as radiant as medusa's eyes.

as beautiful as a mouthful of flies.

solve et coagula

the sojourn head 

sits there atop it all

with endorphins

trickling in

vivisect me darling

i am waiting to be eaten

and the moon 

just hangs there 

just a little bit wrong

like christmas lights in june

analgesia

little convulsions
made the meat 
die

how could it be of any use now

where i paint 
the tree roots red, the soil white

blood trails and snow

like eyes

becoming useless things
cracked and oval shaped

and i can see a crucifixion
in magenta and azure and black

and how wonderful it is
to bake cup cakes
for the pentecost

heaven drains
amniotic

how i wish i could sever 
every nerve ending
in this body

how i miss my mind

how i'd like to take a hacksaw 
through my femur

be it
one morphine capsule 
at a time

a year zero

is it weird
that i rehearsed losing you 
in my head?

is it weird that i practice 
saying goodbyes,

that i fantasize about the end?

always preparing.

i wonder
if i orchestrate it
inadvertently.

sometimes 
i am happy

but i loathe myself.

when does 'being content'
transition to
'being happy'?

sometimes there is wishful thinking.

sometimes
i kill the lights
and i look for dreams

but i am blind.

sometimes
facial features 
twist and contort into code.

sometimes i live
in your wake

but sometimes,

more than i'd like to admit;

sometimes
i die

in it.

destroyer

he was a passenger to the amygdala

vultures pick his rib cage clean.
the stringy bits of gore;

symbolic.

he cannot feel her.

he knows
that he will not 
live long enough
to understand this.

proxima centauri on the gloss
of his eyes.

he prefers sleeping
he cannot feel her hand on his cheek
he has dreams of demons

he is never coming back

pulse

it is
after a moment of pareidolia
that i notice

i am squinting 
into a piece of the sun

post
the layered pulse
resounding through the neighborhood

my fingers
rushing along the neck
of my instrument

this

of the wishful fermatta

and any disbelief of the sun
now met
with a rumored
existence

of it

because this night
is aortic 

and this night
is pulmonary

and everything here
is alive

and we are the sun