I’ve burned the weight
that sloshes off my spine
where it harbors still
in those worlds carved
from wayward steam,
dissolving in tendrils
like a testament erased
from the Bible. Tattered
in lamb, I find my solace
in more glacial editions.
These grounds became berries—
a beast that blooms with slobbered
soil, viscous in exuberant earth
panting for the vulgar harvest
when my heels would come
along and juice the tension
from its heavy cranium. For
my own leaking realms, I ask
that it will to do the same to me.
The tongue waits with a captain’s patience.
Epiglottis, ebbing with the brine. Someone
indecisive between the salt and voices.
Sirens, yawns with dawning ecosystems,
unable to decipher feasts from eulogies:
throats, anchored ajar
like paralyzed vessels.
The pulses reminisce of drowning velvet.
Valves, gargling salty fabric and cutting
stitches in the cortices. You, attempting
to clothe them all like garlic vagabonds
before they gnaw through a denim world,
trailing sliced leashes like tunneling worms.
The industrial psychologist
desperately waits for real
shapes. Flirtation circles
tongues with renewed
angst, leaving a trail
of dust bunnies moist
from bobcat mouths.
These are not grounds
for burial in yesterday’s
coffee grinds, nor nests
but hunting in perfect
squares bent by rebel
light. Just chemistry.
How would we re-define “expansive”?
This is the only socially acceptable way
to drown now: a subsidy for space, paid
by the taxes of concrete atoms. Mouths
pried open in a stony trauma. Address
the grievances of eyelids burdened by
leftover from manic-depressive meteors.
If only your Manifest Destiny conquered
comets instead of cultures, or engulfed
disease instead of aliens: if only civility
included such institutional endorsements
to identify the corpses of
Who else but me could scrimshaw
trapeze artists into this marrow,
wire trampolines to these pupils:
implant plasticity like
from the gall of ritual
bulls or a sterilized god
complex? I’ll sacrifice
my ovary eyes to a violent cherries
jubilee, vision jiggling in warring
pores as eggs poached with ivory.
This maternity is to carry
triplets of bullets. I’m out
to crystallize into artillery,
no yolk left to pave red
runny reins to my aorta.
I’m out of kerosene and love:
that’s juicy, raw, rare. Inherit
the soldiers. Prepare the stove.