There are things about me that I have yet to discover.
In the past year I feel as though I have been all around the planet
swathed in clear & gauzy duct tape
treading muddy waters with heavy salt on the lips
keeping me and holding me hard against riding the waves
deaf to the rush of violence around me
every action peeled out is a thunderous sound-off
of richly technical eye witness.
Not quite drowning but sickeningly sure of the meter of every inhalation.
Seeing but not hearing the tentacles of enormously brave and destitute creatures beating
and battering static blue hued and vacant civilizations beneath a storm of torrid tides
just off of the shoreline... the jagged edges that smoothly outline my stabbingly desperate embrace, mean nothing-even if beautiful. Though my perimeter could be cried out as horrible when activated, at least it is certainly fragile. Inside, I am not truly terrible. I am soft. I am comfortable. I am sitting at the fire of my will. I am sure.
The creatures, their battle and their targets... are all my own. My very own. I call them.
Every exhalation is a drawn out pain that threatens each peace and me as it strokes into slumber the paranoid beast--with careful and crude tenderness... sleep. forget. die. and never return.
My God, My hope, My Word... and their dashed and peppered muscular atrophy grow imaginary limbs and pierce the sky with red red arms... in my head.
In pieces and eternally restless.. regretfully weakest...
I move with the sway. I step aside against the tide and it still goes right through me. I scan the horizon for landmarks. I prepare to die in my sleep, (though not from flooding) so that tomorrow I will be reborn-- after a night of battle in nightmares.
Fuck the ride. I lived to drown in this. I die with every dive but for every night that I have to sleep without you tucked deeply into my side
I rage and I kill and I fly heavy handed on heartbreaking rewind
into wall after wall after wall after wall believing that time will for once be kind and find me again, forever in your grace. Wrapped up in your perfect pulse and enveloped in your divine skeleton, I am forced alive and to wretching a distinct perfume from every pore. All the seconds I am given to convince your every cell, I run from, afraid of the last moments we will share. I am a factory for you.
Here I sit around the bonfire and dank comfort--fearing the blade of invaders--holding hand wrought spoons to the salty lips of our babes... swallowed by cottonwood smoke, and waiting for you under the weight of every last universal disaster.
I will take bullets and faithfully return to your chamber.
You are the roots in my clouded sky.