You are at any moment what you are thinking at
that moment. Your I is both subject and object;
it predicates things of itself and is the things
predicated. The thinker is the thought, the knower
is what is known, the possessor is the things
possessed. 
              —Jack London, John Barleycorn

I wait beside each breath, there
is a chance I could believe
it later. The small ripple of water
lost is the cruelest kiss.
It is an arid belief wanting flowers
to bloom when the seeds have fled
in the frantic misery of the wind.

To grasp flesh as a breath, a dying
man propped on a pillow of hope.
It is pleasure dug deep in the
wounded red night, scissors well oiled,
a parting death to slip into. Can you
read the number on me?

The egrets rise like flags
of surrender, hands hastily
thrown up and shot. Yet I still
pray to you. The subordination
of the stone to the pond.



.

I’ll take wine if that is the only trick
you know, I was hoping for a shortcut.

I’ll take your bird-like hands, there is a nest
in me, a bramble piercing any sky.

Maybe I’ll turn and run, boundless, a blue god.
Maybe you already did. Maybe the rose petals are clues.

The glint of the sun snags my eye, then
the brick hits me. Another ocean falling out,
another crucifix baited.

I wanna lick your rusty fingers.

I am a gun digging for gold.
I am a bird dreaming of cathedrals.
I am a veil of water tired of living.

I proclaim myself holy.

There was a time when I could hum and
your blood would call me home.




.

We are hidden in

the missing light,
a dark recess.  Blind,
we are animals
of taste and touch. 
The air is slick with
scent and the whirring
guttural voices of beasts. 
Until the thinnest blade
of light cuts into us,
we are immaculate 
in the suns vivisection. 
The golden truth of
bodies lost in another’s

.

wellspring

I am no longer vacant,
emptiness has fled as I lie
here teeming with more
life than any day before.
Are your hands soft? 
Will you rest them on me? 
Each finger a bullet, a feather’s
breath of lead to pierce my heart. 
You may keep what you find.

Tattooed and painless the story
is writ proudly, my belly is wine dark
and seeping.  Shadows crawl in veins
no longer silent, encompassing hands
that have released their misery.

Scatter seeds amongst
the writhing mass, 
spontaneous generation will
yield a swarm. Flies or flowers,
either will join me as the food of gods.



.