i’ve seen you die in bed-sheets
strangled by the beast of apathy
yours is soft as your pi
lgramage to turn a blind eye
and look self reflection deep in the face of
not too deep.
perhaps rationality will suffice
too soothe and lull it back
still – there’s depth to the curves of your
intentions are clouded by pressures
i will have whats left over, and make it
dawns in strange places
and brazilian nuts
everything’s from africa.
good morning kisses and midnight cuddles make me curl away
when did arms become cages?
i miss everything i shouldn’t
we’re just a symptom of something sadder.
you’re still a child
wanting to pet the wolf
“because you can”
does the coat feel different from your carpet, rug, next-door mutt?
i bet you would
want to iron nature’s rug once it’s been tamed
the damage has already been done.
im going through portals
they remind me to dig your nails between the cracks
pull back the kind of the ordinary
pushing out of comfort
i hear blubber in your belly
the type of person
who needs tissues up their ass
you’re full of shit
too much too empty once.
snoring, lazy , coward.
foolish coyote proving bravery by picking
at the smallest bug
in case you weren’t aware;
doesn’t make you graceful
walking blindly into a forest
doesn’t make you brave
pulling blindly at the snake’s tail
make you childish, entitled, and a casualty
behaving like nature is something to own
there is nothing feral about you
there’s nothing about you that is wild.
your pamper paper butt moons shamefully
as you rummage through your back of useless
find me that fire starting kit
tell me how to start a fire “the real way”
then tell me that lightning excites you
as we drive down the hill
watching bodies of dead trees crumble.
im going to tell you
you will be visited by either the Lamb
or the Beast
but as usual,
only i will attend here.
like the moon who invented rhythm
i’m now a servant to civilization
who uninvited it.
theres been an ebb against potential here
a halt in scrutiny
a tsk tsk to routine
there is such thing as too much of a good thing
just ask the desert man drowned in the ocean
not too many sunsets have been seen from that angle
there are words in here you may not reach
months that escaped
that last beer in an alcoholic’s six pack
they’re not for you
those secrets are not for you
those months are not for you
so when you hold me next time,
watch for the tide of my breath
soft like my skin on your warmth
picture me small
mouse-sweet and drip-dripping tender
but know and wonder
there are secrets in there
some we will not mention
even to the loudest of roars
tell me again now,
FOX AND HOUND
it feels bitter when it should feel sweet
it feels ragged when it should feel smooth,
it feels deep purple when it should feel pink
these smells should only
bring back memories of stay and release
not damp apartments in cities
where our mothers cried
where we cried ourselves awake
many days tugging your tail too far
off your fruitful grounds
so who was wolf
and who was fox?
now you see me scurry back in who’s little borough
i still think of you.
the gift of humanity
is the claim by the self
and our lives
become poems we were born to tell
we shed time the way your body sheds weight
of days behind our now
but can you grasp it?
now, i mean
before then and soon all become
muddled into systems of feelings drawn out
by the same creature
who trained whistles and rails on time.
until then, or now at least
we’ll be wrapped in sun kissed skins
and i’ll give you mine
just in case.