Sunk

The perfect amount of of rocks,

turned sideways and other ways, only missing the rivers from which they came,

and all that non native pruning that has been done,

with so many borders,

is at least sufficient for this audience,

sufficient for this cry for help.

It feels better between both ears, to be sure,

more succinct,

more collaborative,

and somehow still sufficient for this audience.

Despite what the reviews say,

that’s more than just a blank stare,

what’s more than blank stare?

To keep our eye on the ball?

and we almost missed out own chair when we took a seat,

just now.

But we still sank in.

We are sunk.

we are.

just now.

Masterpiece

Not sitting still,

Pacing mostly,

getting so comfortable , and then pulling the blanket over all of me ,

because I am uncomfortable,

I am cold,

I have this memorized .

I have this italicized .

I am clever.

I am good,, for now

but there is nothing worse then these racing words

and the sound of my own voice,

while the other ear takes in everything else.

The doctor is in the other room,

to take it in all the rest,

this tidal wave,

all that control,

this masterpiece , and whatever is left.

North of me

Am I just bending words?

missing it and scaring me,

All of it does,

All at once.

Working from the very end , from far, far

behind.

We are not even sure who is supposed to be working concession

or the scoreboard, even.

My hands and my head and my fingers feel wet,

and were talking about nothing important , WERE JUST TRYING TO KEEP SCORE

Were just talking about what’s north of the flowers,

we have to talk about this ,

and waiting for the big swing,

we have to.

Waiting on what’s down there below ready to grab my wet, flailing fishy hands,

or my vulnerable fishy ankles,

what or who is ready to take a close one.

or to lean into it, whatever it is.

Whatever is north of that,

whatever is north of me .

Loud Enough

Don’t forget the night and

don’t stretch your fingers too far, keep them close,

in a fist,

to you,

for you.

Not dead,

not quite yet,

out of batteries though,

and shelf space too.

But there’s still cool air,

plenty of it to go around,

Like during times of war,

all that cool air everyone gets used to.

None of it is blue enough, or green enough,

and we just don’t know how to end it,

and it almost always

never loud enough.

Am I just holding my breath?

Skinnier legs than I can remember, standing out- two femurs, two strikes,

melted candles, but

not two tigers.

Still in front of me , in stone,

but I don’t understand the direction or the atrophy either.

Despite the time of day, despite the humidity,

Its only when I am choking do I lose control, or seem to. or want to.

or am I just holding my breath? should we even order seconds?

or am I just holding my breath?

Or plagiarizing? Or just walking home?

Guillotine

Despite our dealings in the dark,

with the dark

about the dark and its wiry fingertips,

wired into the night; into it’s wandering circuit,

into incandescence,

My teeth clinched to the point of breathing, breaking,

Guarded , but disintegrating but still managing to hang onto my gums,

chattering just above my waiting lips before they inevitably recoil and bite down,

like a guillotine; a leaning fence

Not a kiss,

and not much of a falling star, either.

Bleed Through

where we left off; mispronunciations abound,

on an island,

those blue waves.

when we were rabid and bruised,

on that island;

those very same waves.

cursed, by those

those blue waves that are mostly black and blue now

and left on the cutting room floor,

of that black and blue island

toothless, drooling but finally repatriated.

Quickly allayed, and just as the the door was opened ,

just barely cracked now, by the wind, by something else.

Exasperated , but fortified, but were looking for something with a little more length.

Just end it here, you cant go on about the crows or the stairs anymore ,

Your beginning to bleed through.

Theirs and mine

Pulling over for the precious metals,

despite the lack of humanity felt in my fingertips,

and waiting for the recoil.

and somehow subsequently pulling away from those same precious metals,

mouths left agape,

theirs and mine….theirs and mine

yours and theirs.

Howling with laugher,

and shining back and fourth,

back

and

fourth,

Me and You,

Theirs and mine.

Without the light

It will be remembered at a holiday, thrown against the wall,

cast into a premature ice age,

in a different language, a different month, a different tongue,

heavier luggage, sure,

But less inclined to be sucked dry though.

Especially since your feet absorbed most of what was all over the ground,

like mothballs,

Without the light.