Beat
this beating heart
I want to taste
it—draw
breath
against
its dying
savor
the lack
of it
the subtract
of stillness
from its
place
of vibe
bear
tremble
for
longer
still
End
Death began adagio
a slow mesmerize
into vertigo
heaped upon
banks of Styx
tendering Charon
obolos,
an allowance
for transverse
beyond
his liminal
space
I cross waters
unfamiliar
into realize
of no second
chances
with fear
rippling
through spent
body,
a path
appears
my path
built
upon choice
and Moirai’s pull
a path
to walk
through horizon
a bow
onto end
Body
my body
is sixty percent
water
and forty percent,
consent
feather-light
wings
allowing winds
to pull
it’s Jill
after Jack
accepting
plunge
twoscore
shatter
it’s the bitter
swig
of shame
after limelight
and pooled
whiskey,
neat
it’s repetition of
mercy
mercy
mercy
after spiral
counterpoint to
empty
it’s hand
to lines
of ribcage
touching
heart
hundred percent
pulse
Miss (as action)
miss
innocuous word
burdened
by connotation
to
the verb
of it
the miserable list
of synonyms
it summons—
yearn
want
ignore
lack
forget
escape
neglect
avoid
lose
grieve
yet they
still do not
capture
the crux
of its ruin
the intimate
devastation
tenderly kept
as pillar
of heart
the
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
slowing
killing
from within
Fallen
The hollow of the oldest valley
cradles the oldest tree,
felled;
its above and below
flush,
negative space of limbs
cut onto earth,
vulnerable
to the open blue;
I imagine
its fate
as collapse
an eagerness
to die
a sigh
for the gods
a close
to premise
a tree has fallen
with(out)
resound
alone
Hurts
You asked me
once
did it hurt when
you fell?
I didn’t know
how you
overheard
our conversation
the one
from Jupiter
to Sahara
when I asked them
(the stars and the void)
will she hurt
the blue world
rearing up
to meet me
they said
it’ll only hurt
when you breathe
when you
take her
in
when you
meet her
as she is
I promised then
I would
suff(er)ocate
i won’t be
a bother
they sighed
then you’ll never
die
the point is
to die
over
and over
again
and again
So to your answer
It didn’t hurt
to fall
It hurt
to live
Marked
bare
I will not live
I will not die
for you
moon
I bend
for light
but you only see
sickle
submerged
in shadow
curves
to consume
marked
through
and through
but I am
complete
unbruised
for the wolves
Sleep
pausing to circle
and land on
nest
a sort of nap
babies envy
when sense deprivation
becomes portal
to paradise
the one
inside
the one
of clear renaissance
when
the wheel
stops its spin
a grind to halt
that pounds
in ear
and I never sleep
not really
just shift
from one reality
to another
enough times
to doubt
the mercy
of dawn
I’m never where
I belong
Instinct
dense sludge of void
sticks heavy
rooted
as sacrum
dread decrees sanctuary
rollicky
mess
compounding
like tar
over
fault line
repetition permitting chaos
perennial breakage
above ditch
each new crack
dawn
and its drown
scar
destruction is instinct
Poet
If I was not a poet
I would be
filtered sunlight
on Sunday mornings,
dawning on
hearts and their
tangled
mess
If I was not a poet
I would be
a chasm,
a catch
for moments
before death
If I was not a poet
I would be
the mountain
under mountains,
reckless
in my burgeon,
everywhere
unseen
If I was not a poet
I would be
blank,
a bare infinity
rewritten,
over
and over
again
and again