going

There are dreams of maps and destinations, red stars

with iron hearts to guide. A soundtrack of whispers roaring

through rolled down windows.

I hauled hard on the lines of truth, every version of hands

held fast to preciousness. Let them be blinded and learn

to feel again the flesh they are. The comfort of their own

skin. Do you remember where you parked the car? I want

to find the rain.

The sun rise catches in remains of grasshoppers bright

glowing nebulas on the crackling sky of the windshield. A

glove box full of postmarks waiting.

Butted up against continental drift your wickedness

conspires to keep me willing. Surely I could lose myself in

you as easily as any forest or jagged sea. Burning

through the long night of winter until the need of spring

presses us flat.

I don't want anything to be true again, I'm tired of

squinting to see the contrast between grey and grey.

I watch the sunrise and remember too late; light

intensifies into pain. The dark sun floating behind closed

eyes. I am a giant as I piss. My shadow is infinite but it is

only missing light

.

aural

Closer to closer these desert

sands fall between the strings.

I wait for the unhinging, the release

that erosion brings in slow

catastrophe. The meadowlark is

still taut to it's song. I eavesdrop

on what is not for me; these

bright feathers soon lost

to the machine of the sun

and distance that only grows

.

incubate

They pulled the gems from

my teeth, the heat

of silence a hotbed for the crystalline.

Veins golden I rubbed my

tongue against the small pleasure of decay.

If there was need

or want would there be fingers

to reach into my gagging throat to force

an escape? What the flesh holds ridiculously

dear the wires will not

loop around. The grip of mortality

and its baseless regulation of rot

is lost in the red welt of days

.

touch

The triple click of the clock

and the dark will open to you.

The deformation of air and the silence

of the void, barriers breaking

with an urgent report. The final

acceleration into repulsion; the world

rotating around a blade of grass. A finger

brushing the golden mound of triggers

.