long earth/warm hands/the ten day war

You have to understand I hate being this way: the anchor that holds half my head. I know the war. You know the war. But, still, to always rise to it, and let yourself swallow it, and loudly you are cut down. I ball my fists, remain a centaur. My want is more than violence. My need is to tremble in love.

(I think of the innumerous skies, and how crooked my skin lies, and the fly cutting its head against the passing glass, and the small texture of plastic grips. Your bones warp the stories, or the stories warp the wood.)

This is never finished.

I have to turn away, and stop. I've been looking far too low. I've been struck aside. I need to remember, and not for you. I know I won't ever have a voice like you. Mine is cast in vapors. Mine resists, in ugly glow.

I won't have structure.

(These insects called home.)




But light.

Goodness in tremors.

Wax anthem.

Stand louder.

Without flight, or throw.

The fool is

but light.

the purple frozen sun sets

this vision is not infinite, not always. these words are simple, cut with one bone. these words inflict some sense of things. this day is not the end, but it is not now, that i would want. this prickle in my heart is ugly, this racing skin. this swamp i tend to, this empty flame i keep clean. this wound is heavy, and not a crown. this truth is golden, though, that the purple frozen sun sets, and that was good, and now flooding grievous.

i am shitting out these mix tapes. i am filling my mouth with these black curtains and decaying polite demands and indifferent urgencies.

how can i rise.

i am always waking up

(the cold magnetic sky, stadium lights, us wearing steam, parachutes, centipedes, a dream...)

her breathing was gunsmoke, a web of light, a forest taking arms in my eyes.

and here i am, cut clean of that, licking the thick years off morning glass, sleeves of tin foil, vodka and milky eyes. i adjust some feathers, rattle my mail, empty my fingers into sockets.

must that spins these rainstorms and silkworms, and beautiful globe, and birds of colour that my eyes are so full up, and cavernous clouds, and toothache, and memory of sex.

(there were to be no mornings without, any more)

you are printed on leaves. you taste like dry marker. you bristle smoke from an earth. you listen to some scar. you radiate spare death. you throw wings. you believe in cold horses.

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the day is sick in its stomach, burning on a branch, sweating from your putrid wood. there is some sugar plastered to his cheek, some bone ragged in his lock, some string he chews bloodied. the day is heatstroke, and unessential, and jerking games. the day is hungry, filtering through fences and gates, so once far.

the way back is our dusk

it is impossible not to be crashed with awe when it is passing through friday dusk after a brilliant week. and, for tonight: rekorderlig, all stumbling in a new house, these friends who define my life as champion.

it's—really—this—grin—that—just—moves—out.

the morning

your blood is not strange, your dreams are not heavy.