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.