the morning of the day inside of me

"How strange I feel, if as a lit match soaked in sweat, the bird of prey run through an ocean."

—Ian William L.

to this day

seconds—thirds

Those hash tags are nooses, hang my eyes upon you.

cutting the after

You don't see broken glass. You can't fix robot people. You won't love easy.

what do you want

postcards from a space before

Though I signed the card "xoxo" that is not the end.

Though night falls over the city that is not the end.

Though the holiday is over that is not the end.

We are not at end.

We are only beginning.

All my love.

And months pass, in this love. I don't imagine every little evil now. I could read newspapers. I make a mess on the spaces. Some things fill my head—teeth, bones, sparks.

1. I can't see you because you are from a country that is soaring away, you gently with all your soils.

2. do you believe, and still pretend, the mid-conversation, the blood and limbs of it.

3. too bright, but it does not all depend on this coming to life here.

4. I leave for some raking.

5. the structure is long gone.

6. read a book.

7. lucky.

I saw a dog. I saw a lion. I saw a sun. I saw a place.

I have a headache and lunch money.

but the night clubs you.

you would call this madness, called kindness.

a serpent you don't seek.

the epilogue of now

i am not the writer, not right now. i am living. trust me. i put the pen down and breathe it all in.

i still see the light in you.

catching.

i lick the stamps of my palms of my hands.

we come together. the fireworks are sweating.

to sleep here.







I still see light in you

catching

across the stamps

the palms of my hands

we come together

in fireworks sweating

to sleep here.

now, if ever, if

the world is a truly beautiful place, all pulsing madness and resplendence. just take the darkness brightly and people you love brightest and allow yourself to be moved.

stagheart

and then tomorrow I am re-shattered, grin-on-grin, thrown from this slow spring's chance.

i, you, chemica

it's a busy city, it's a tectonic lung, it's a scrap heart, it's a strikeout, it's a metal thunderhead.

it is tin foil, it is loud, it is fish guts, it is muted beneath the hour hand.

it was a question, it was low flight, it was mud in my eyes.

(snake eyes, o lover in hungers)

it has been home.