Giggling in a gurney

within one microcosmic glimmer of perfection

could anyone truly understand the ship wreck which is my mind?

like a moon whose shadow wanes as it grows,

i run away from the puzzling shape of humans

like a fish out of water

but on steroids.

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Apartment 1816

We are crummy kids and martyrs
Birds of warped feathers and electric cores

Unstable faces wanting
To heal.

We pile an old coffee table
In ashes

We knit together our dreams
In a frantic rug

Waiting for an explosion,
for the day we become Holy,
Old messes dripping away,

The day we find the horizon
of the ocean that terrorized
Us, we’ll scaffold that star
we named “hopefully Estrella”

From an alien grotto
We’ll stumble in quiet bliss

One day, I’m convinced
We’ll be somewhere radiant
Hair and eyes tousled
In meteors

Our old and battered world
dancing through us, blooming
from a Lunar gorge.

We release our safeties.

It’s all malleable

She told me “write write write write write” and I swear colors exploded between the gaps of her syllables.

“Spend as much time humanly possible writing,” she said. “Trust me.”

And that was it.  I knew the gravity of a lark’s plight. Why I can’t believe in god–why I can never say anything lasting about the first time I fell in love–where sin dissolves after bloodshed.

Here, only in subjectivity, I can be. I’ll take my brevity and bury my heart in yarn, twisting and knotting its threads into some imprecise, truthful pattern. You can find me within the layers, hidden like a lost pocket of conversation, clinging to the hope that my life is not a cliche.

There, I can plant an idea, grow a tree, and whittle my labor into a pipe. I’ll load it with potential and it’ll burn into delicate mushroom clouds–organic like the dreams at our feet.

Me and my visions, we’ll summon together the north and south pole and whir lightly over the axis of catastrophe. Parallel, we’ll know the freedom only possible in a well’s stomach.

And if it all becomes too fleeting, I’ll burrow into pillows made of hand scratched letters and admire the inconsistency of tree roots. My ankles will sink into caverns. I’ll throw tridents at the impossibility of clockwork and my vessels will shoot rockets from my heart.

And like a raven who sees the shimmer in blur, maybe, I too will find the color of nothing.

there’s no clarity in symmetry

i smoke my cigarettes sober and stare

the homeless straight in their eyes
searching beseechingly
for something more than faith
 
living on fringes, becoming
marginalized, misanthropic
even chaos misunderstands
my composition
 
one day i get t-boned on a sidewalk
fate hands me answers on a silver platter
locks click into each other as perfectly
as that car which magically assembles its 20,000 parts
in the midst of a wind storm
 
hope beckons and i follow
but so do questions,
plane crashes,
trust funds, and
wounded buffaloes;

so does
ravensbruck,
las vegas,
and sandy hook
 
and absolutes taste bitter on my tongue
 
yes, the smoke i exhale is honest
but i can’t live in a world without entropy