I lapse into abstraction,
enticed by the ephemera
because I’m scared of myself,
my life, my present, my mind.
I fear that my depression is contagious
that my anxieties are infectious
that you might learn to hate me
the same way I learned to hate myself.
Flesh of snow melting on charcoal bones
Singed sinews echo the smells of burned bodies
I hear them behind my ears
I smell them without my nose
I killed them.
My body is the dirt from which it grew
Ouroboros’ self-hatred played out again
I will die angry again
And gain, I will fertilize the oppressors’ fields
My fathers’ fields, the killing fields.
Fields don’t kill people, people kill people
and white people have killed a lot.
Space cowboys with gas rifles, floating up
while we wallow below in our oceans.
I fear evaporation and prefer the current of community,
but anger heats my molecules, lifting me up, away.
If only I could cool down the sky and bring it lower.
Would a world of water flow more smoothly?
My fathers melt in a tin-sided trailer
while my wheels idle slowly on a tar-chipped tarmac.
Grounded at birth in a cement-block cul-de-sac,
I wait for the ashes to come home so I can sleep.
It’s a soft bed, and warm, until it consumes me.
They scatter at my every breath,
so coherent, so conformed, so inconsistent
in temperature, in texture,
always burning, always burnt, but
always cooling beneath my weight.
I fear I may have stamped them out.
Half centaur, half nothing, all terrible
like a stand-in scarecrow
made up, but barely, of straw
and white men’s worst wishes.
You sound like someone with a lot of talent but not a lot of potential;
The world is shades, it’s layers, it’s enormity, it’s not yours
To paint in ways that no one has ever painted before
Because it’s already out there. You’re too late.
All you can do is sit still and watch the horizon skew itself away from you
Hiding from you sights of splendor embarrassing for their brilliance
And claim to have seen a thing unique, meant only for you,
But you’ve only your eyes and throat to show it so.
The cosmos does not bend. It expands. Your pen is not a drag and drop tool,
And the ether is not a webpage. It is your breath. It is your flesh
Made whole. It is experience. You are a neophyte
In the art of living. Who are you?
“Selah,” the psalmist said
in regards to a feeling
he could not put into words
longer and more pointy.
I too gasp the ephemera,
climbing the chiaroscuric
darkness in the streets
and settling our hearts to
the unified beat of futility.
No one ever dies.
We consume one another
as we consume ourselves,
every breath a purchase,
every step a conscious choice
to participate in the world’s largest tango,
ever enlargening and becoming clumsier
with each new drink.
I will die intoxicated.
This is my blood:
take it and drink it.
Let the wine of my words overwhelm you.
Maple syrup sunsets drip
strands of long, tan ambience
on a see-saw Saturday afternoon.
A milk-mustached manatee
sweating the sundried serenity
eats rolled, gold porridge through a straw.
He looks at me, and I at he,
and we both see an understanding
bloom like bellbottomed blue jeans
out of the 70’s.
The maître D’, a well-dressed whelk,
Comes to help us spend ourselves
And we drink early morning potatoes
By the Kansa Sea.