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.

ASYMETRICAL OBJECTS

ASYMETRICAL OBJECTS

a fractured porcelain moon

glimmering dully on an asphalt sky

the television's plaintive whine

rising up to greet the arterial dawn

a body next to a body next to a fall—

the horizon and its dark opposite

crushing the day like a bloodied jaw

nine arms after nine hours serving

a solitary twilight, drawn into a

presumptive embrace, a sleeping draught,

water carrying itself to rest, to gurgle

away another night.

III.I.MMXIII

III.I.MMXIII

dawn raises her

self painfully from

that sharp horizon,

great guttural exhalations

escaping her ragged

maw, another sky

pressing her back

down, grim, gray,

groaning that today

is not yet

that day, not

yet ready for

some bloody beginning.

THE NEXT, BEST THING TO HELL

THE NEXT, BEST THING TO HELL

re-damned by some

falling sky,

your taste, as others

discretely sample

your flesh, marinated

in a mortality made

more sweet by our

willful ignorance

of all things.

NEVER IS

NEVER IS

the sky unzips,
blackens as
 
stars scrape,
torn down

by some demiurgic
gravity, we

think.

NOTHING IS REALLY REAL UNTIL IT IS MADE INTO A SIMULACRUM OF ITSELF

NOTHING IS REALLY REAL UNTIL IT IS MADE INTO A SIMULACRUM OF ITSELF

present a quote of

the world,

like

a half-whispered

prayer, a sky

bled too white

for stars.