up, under a roof,
under a perfect yellow moon,
I watch oxygen expand
Midnight sleeps an ear ache away
from me snoring.
Oxygen starts its engine, then
shuts off again.
God grows in a cradle like a
ghost plant, a living reminder
of what is yet to be dead.
below me, kids are
An eye for an eye,
till war takes them both.
When tonight catches up, it will
pluck spots from the day until
we sing the song of
I will wait for God to grow
out of his cradle, strike a match
against conscience and finally,
I’m not so angry after all
this time, he smells like honey, hot roasting in the damp evening.
His carpet moves like the sea. I might be breathing, but he’s not.
His blood is worn out in deep veins, his secret time is up.
I am not angry this time, he positions himself for love and I watch,
jammed with battle fever, I am hot for war.
A soldier holds no fear, and there is no time to speak.
He engraves himself with yesterday and I wear him next to my heart.
I am not angry after all
this time. His blood dries up and my ache fades.
We are both permanent in a temporary place.
I am drifting on deep histories
salty seas. She is talking to me.
We are throat cancer. We are worms meat.
My shoulders shrink to nothing.
She dangles from a bouquet of rage,
a hanging body of scarlet. I am her alcoholic
mother. The sky is raining the sea.
She speaks sores at me,
deep reasoning in gray color panties.
I carry her like old luggage, then
scream at the dog to shut it.
Today was just a dream.
I sweat with the sun on chalky concrete.
She kisses poison like it’s fruit.
Then lays back and licks me.
I play her like a handshake.
The weights are on my ankles.
She burns like radiation while I beg to control it.
I buy my spirit off the market.
She twists the lid off a bottle.
We make love on top of rockets.
She slips through cracks in the surface.
I don’t know how to ignore this.
She draws me like I’m crystal. I’m her silverware and dishes.
I’ve eaten for the last time. Her body is infected.
I pour her in a glass to swallow.
She spits me out and kicks me like a habit.
I die across the oceans.
The water is bad tempered.
She shoots whispers like a bullet.
I’m an empty trigger. I bury her
in the desert. She skins me like a rabbit.
I’m a blue shirt in her sewer,
drifting to sleep on deep history.
My coffin is a boiler. She won’t even haunt me.
My body is dead to her.
She will not stop talking,
but she stopped talking to me.