-comingit’scomingit’scomingit’scomingit’s-

heart’s pounding down 7/11 polyrhythms,

nape’s a pin cushion,

earlobe’s puffing up cauliflowers in hell’s oven,

and the platoon of sweat emerging from the hairline’s

making you sweat even harder.

they carry in their knapsacks and bandoliers

a holy mission of scouting the lungs. they’ll

check for traps and openings in the roots

in preparation for an ambush whenever, wherever.

watch your step kid, read some line from a book about pain -

about sonorous waves pulsing like some typhoon’s scorn?

you’ll trip their claymores, losing your legs again,

you’ll cry out, drowning in the pool of sweat. and

lodged in between the Os and the Hs are suns, but they’re not beautiful. no,

the spike tendrils that snap and whip on the surface are your sins. those

blazing balls are so bright and so heavy, your page’s plagiarized from sisyphus and icarus.

and you’re stuck back before galileo, thinking it’s not the center of all things,

you idiot, you selfish bastard, you shameless-

some uroboros waterfall, this is. it

halos your outline chalked

on the skin of your mattress

and wets your moth-riddled bedsheets;

old friend underneath

takes its ritual showers

while you try to sleep. readying

its ingredients, boiling scarecrows in a witch’s cauldron. the

vapor’ll pierce through the veil of your dreams, blackening the sky, wintering lungs,

and instead of yawning when you wake, you scream.