A VOID

 A VOID

a static feast, platters heaped
high with cruel and violent
delights—some rendered as
sweetmeats, some as overcooked
steak—carbonized until transformed
into something antitoothsome and
ferociously in need of
mastication beyond any normal mouth…

hence, and so, the demons
of some forlorn and two faced
month crawl from their suburban
hells, to celebrate some crude
and broken Agonalia, too eager
to offer the sacrifice—only willing
to read if the text is haruspical—
to sail if the sea is spittle—
to hear if the scream is
far beyond paranymic—to be

only if they can be
nearly empty vessels of need,
yawping mouths wide and yowling,
mewling, amok, crying out for
the ghost of a meal
they had only ever dreamed.

MONTHS OR DAYS OR HOURS

lost year we // sharpened our
mole claws // blundered, blind,
out under // that sometimes sun

sometimes cloud // mostly empty,
always unrepentant // our mouths gone,
whispered off // somewhere else, some

where better // to turn our backs
out, sit & unsit // dreaming of empty
halls as lonely as // Heorot, unmonstered

unfeasted, unsung // unpeopled & battered,
all our solipsistic // voices, unmoored from
any true mouth // screaming, coughing

HERE IS OUR LONG FOREVER //
IT UNMAKES US SO VERY WELL

elbows knocking // shall we dance
away to that always // dimming dusk
what use are tongues // if we cannot taste

what use our tongues // if we shout
as loud without // our teeth still true,
our bite as feral // our hunger grown

sup with us // this break fast on
our own lungs // our own tongues,
sink your jaws // wholly separate

from any face // ‘nto your neighbors
heart, we are // so discrete, our
meal we made // the reservation

we have finally kept.

BODY IS TRUE

BODY IS TRUE

we are that
demiurgic cabal

left alone,
together

under the heavy
expanse of the

empty, eyewateringly
blue sky, jostling

each other aside
to claim our turn to

press our fingers
into the cold, dead

clay, willing it
to be anything,

anything but
meaningless and

inert.

“SOMETIMES I THINK I HAVE THE DREAMS CONTINOUSLY EVERY MINUTE OF THE DAY, PERHAPS WE ALL DO...”

“SOMETIMES I THINK I HAVE THE DREAMS CONTINOUSLY EVERY MINUTE OF THE DAY, PERHAPS WE ALL DO...”

time is a slumber

drowsily devouring

each day

collecting along the

webbed cracks of

an empty—you know

what belongs here,

if you don't, your

spinal fluid still

does.