All the people I’ve ever loved
will never return to me ever again. Even of those that walk the Earth, when that apex arrived, we were all so fucked/rape by way of the ear, we’d never care about eachother again because we wouldn’t recover from the hurt.
No one knew how to take it. So all of it was taken,
all my friends are dead to me now.
To use an idiom in my own way that has nothing to do with it’s intended meaning.
All my friends are dead to me now. I mind as well hit the road and resign to poverty. Just keep walking until I die, I guess.
regarding the conditions under which you departed:
Did the Daniel Johnston record/
fill the room
his pain so glistening
were we there with you?
How unsolid things mushroom:
Blood fills a syringe.
Silt breathes up around bare feet in cold water.
The atom bomb on an old TV screen.
The strange fascination of seeing your blood
preserved outside your body, but still
connected by a hair breadth’s stream.
People once believed this was…
Men becomes coyotes every day.
A fern will curl inside an empty snail shell
if you are willing to ask it.
I watched a girl sprout wings with blue feathers.
There was blood, it was painful.
The scorpion and the lady. The ridges behind overlay
a love story that never happened.
A scorpion’s tail will become a fern if you ask it.
I like the feeling, when my teeth press against
someone else’s teeth. It’s like our deaths are touching.
It’s like the pressure is the plate at the Pacific rim
pushing up volcanoes. And at the feet of them
villages, a particular epic, seventeen species of songbird.
The last few mornings I vomited acorns and slept
the rest of the day. And then tonight, I opened the screen door
and felt the white paint rub off on my fingers, the wail
of it closing behind me, and I walked into the field
in blue light with my face aching. I saw an old man walking
at the edge of the field, stooped and wheezing, step behind
a cedar, from the west. A dog trotted out the other side.
I see the faces of my dead friends in animals. Deer
with green eyes and pale lips. Bears with broad noses.
In the evenings, we sit on the porch and listen
to country songs about bamboo.
You paint your nails with mercury.
I kiss your bones.
Your eyes are shells under invisible sand.
I’ve been a coyote. You were an antelope.
We go to sleep to the sound of hooves.
We push out of ourselves only to find we never existed.
Where the earth, like a galaxy, turns in on itself,
we draw our water and bury our dead;
we stare into the abyss,
toward the magma underneath us,
the buffalo bones,
our parent’s bodies and roots.
We see ourselves,
poised on the thin,
of the cicada’s wing,
balanced above the river,
knowing that it is from this water
we are alive.