shadow puppet ceramics
shutter snap collapsing
its all so fast.

skipping stone spirit
lurid warp and weft
a paper tiger looms

whack-a-mole split
second millenium woe
loose jute lacerations

y’know? its just-
God,
and i know what it is

like i can see it,
and that’s what’s so–
i don’t know…

fixed obsession
wrecked volition
corpus rigor
holy fixture
fig tradition
glue pollution
sticky thunder
rabbit puncture
or

painted mask
weightless mass
frosted glass
black bagged trash
phoenix ash
sealed in wax
opacity
and trickery.
spurts and fits
and glass shoe glitz
the needles pulling out and in
i’m aching something more than love
a cherry blossom mourning dove
there’s no release in vicodin
its bliss it splits a blister wind
inert alert a caving in
i don’t know how to stop this run
i started writing ended stunned
i can’t–

In the winter of my eighteenth year I found myself atop a thirty foot wooden tower among a secluded pine. On one end was a ladder, which I had climbed to reach this spot, and on the other was a sort of gallows. Overhanging from the lip, a yet-untied noose hung, a loose rope dangling twenty-five feet down. My ears were full of hot water, the sun took on a filmic bokeh. A sudden shout shattered the moment and I leapt three feet off the pillar, then my hands established communications with the hanging antenna wire. A moment later, loam and pine needles were my bed, they welcomed me home.

i know that love
is cinnamon and turmeric

i know its slow
like mucin or conifer sap

i know it storms
and it only calms down after

i know that light is languid
there’s no dark pressure rising.

i know
i know