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f/stop

What leaks through
threads binding its skin
to frame is the name
that won’t stay
put (much like its
shape). We want it
solid, close,
so we soften
focus and blur delicate
latticework
into plane and pretend
it was never constituent
fiber, cell, part
of another before
(much like
everything), it was
always only
this and pray
the seams we don’t see
hold.
 

Hold Still

Mental anguish always results from the avoidance of legitimate suffering.
― Stefan Molyneux

Hello day.
Hello desk.
Hello tick
Hello tock.
Hello Yes:
the one
I said
before
I knew.
Hello Word:
the one
I gave
the one
I keep.

 

Stripped

How many more times will he be permitted
the feel of her
tracing the bowl
of bone where his eyes
swim? “I love
your skeleton,” she whispered
then. Fingertips, face, a husk
of wet hunger and life
pressing
in vain, invisible ink
on a saltweed page.
 

Believe What Keeps You

At the moment she thought
she had reached the apex
of beautiful,
she lit every burner
and eclipsed
city night.
He veered
her way. He stayed.

We have no idea how the years work
in our favor.

At the end
of the platform is a sign
that says
You talk,
we listen.
Together we survive.

Eyesight weakens and vision
grows sharper.

She wears the powder blue dress
and smokes a joint
tilting back her gold
mane, a flashing howl
against the open chord
he plays with bare knuckles
and a mouth full of glass.

Hearing deafens as perception
cleaves lyric
from lie.

 

Question Mark Period

If a man begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.
- Francis Bacon, “The Advancement of Learning”

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Feather Duster

He turns on me
the jagged edge
of his gaze. New laws apply.
A laughing matter
is created
as it is
destroyed.
The joke freezes
to shards in his mouth
bleeding the taste
of steel. A doll’s arm
cracks off at the shoulder.
It lies on the other side
of the same room.

Lie as in
Recline.
Lay as in
Place.

On the other side
of the same bed
he lies
through stained lips. I lay
my fiction in his half-closed fist.
It is words that flatten
the pillow. The head itself
is adrift. I press
my hip to what’s left
of night and inflate
the space
between organelles
between passages
of text
closing off
the exits.
We are far more empty
than we are filled.

Down comfort. Damp fluff.
This vestigal hatchling
a nest
where clinging to the cross
hatch are limbs
I wrest like dreams,
his
that he forgets
to dam. The croche
slips round
and through. He falls

damned
to rest
in this jacket of veins
in this thicket of skin.
 
 

No Pardon Granted

Death by a thousand paper cuts.