I will crawl through the soft

Trail where the night kicks long

On the underside of limbs, the branches

Of these cotton woods are tired

From the weight of every morning.

The air thickens without buoyancy.

I would dream any dream of you.

You are a dark spot in my eye, a stain

Sliding ahead of my vision.  Where are

You when I can’t feel your hand on my

Cheek.  When the silence presses deeper

Into my hands than these beads.  Is it faith

That rubbed the effigy of a god faceless?

Impale me to your breast, a blunt

Instrument helpless in the shear force

Of desire.  Fingers clutching at the hilt,

To hold to home, to see it clear of

Fading charms.  A point connecting two

Infinities.  The shrike sings for the gift.

All my life this constant sky never

Blinked.  For a lace with no water

Every door is rusted closed, what can I

Want that you might give?  Is it tragedy

That in death you finally blot out the sun

Long enough for it to be considered shade?

I can finally see the tripwire horizon

For what it is.

.

                                               

There are hearts that never bleed enough

fucking around in the dark

twilight of neon, was there ever
courage to go there alone?
Underfoot with bloodless saints,
toe bones and ring fingers are twigs
in the path to give us away.

Is it sacred, this blue scrabble
of sky barely held to the bone of the
horizon? The rusted noise longing
to slide clear, fluttering oblivion
shifting in the light’s final embrace.

I say no.

Reflective as a cat’s eye but still
only a warning. Stop. The shot is
easily missed if you blink at the right
time or slow enough. Let’s meet
at a midnight intersection with a
semblance of spontaneity, the
momentum of darkness rending
boundaries as fragile as sleep.
Headlights blazing, but we only catch
glare until there is meat. It is a
confession, this violence that leaves us
open, that leaves us inserting teeth into
palms so we can consume the flesh of need,
the flesh of lust. Perforated and
compliant are these pinholes,
a membrane as an orifice still too great.
Is it not enough to gag on hunger?
The blood red stained glass
splattered into chaos, a subliminal
math masked in nonsense.

It is a scripture with never any
chance and only a thin hope of aberration.
I am messianic enough to want your hands
between my ribs. It is a long division that decides
what is left for you. Press your lips into the salt and let me taste
the forgiveness you offer. How was I supposed to know
the way around was the way through.  

My hands move, passing as a shudder, a cathedral of swans
collapsing. The rain shatters over the broken
glass and plastic shards, all that remains of this endless rehearsal.

Thank you, have a nice day.

.