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