11:15

I need to find the words, form the ink into a shovel and dig into the fiber, filter the watermark of distinction.

I see four clean cut corners, an emptiness of resilience, form a salve from the crease and break the spaces between words.

You read this frozen, with a flat key hum, each breath is whir,
each breath is whir. I leave filler in the morning,

Like lint, curved out of the dryer, that texture of what was
and all that was left behind, a mechanical wool gatherer

who dreams of nothing.

Dust In The Eyes

The tile noise of falling,
of coming to a sudden stop.

That voice has collapsed
like chaotic dominoes
without a scent.

My hands are cut along the faults
a pure porcelain edge
There’s blood in the creme
eyes in the dust.

Salts

From the white porcerlain, a copper sink
this is the landscape of extremities
where the scented salts escape the grasp
pressed in the lines of fingers.

Curl your toes in the suds
hands that scrub, to red
waiting tomorrow,
and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
on the reflection of bubbles
to circle the drain.

Belief Engine

I see splinters
how things all come together,
we cannot wait for answers.

Falling out of description
to take the dimensions and
make them my own.

The voice has ratios to keep
taking the finger along the edge
waiting for the paper to peel.

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Among the Strings

I have nothing to say, but the ink flows anyway, awaiting synapses to coalesce into ideas or images waiting for the muse to present. I sit on a comfy couch listening to the singing of sitting on cotton springs, flesh of plant. I wait. Everything is skin– an atom of being and belief. Does God reside on the spin, of all flavors of taste?

The Weight of Fingers

Black band across the face.
eye frame for each
dueling monocle.

I read like each scar
in heaven, the blessing
of raised skin.

This is the memory of the edge:
to make,
to read by feeling.

A Broken Rhythm Fallen Out of Favor.

I promise to keep the cross aloft,
my magic missles midddling majority.
MASSIVE!
Mayhaps, a ship, perchance to dream
electric oars who sing of charms
and earthly delights or when
saliors sail into the night.

Vitrine

Where I keep each movement.
I am clear, my vision static
my breath ripples.

I have sulfur hands
ammonnia slick on the finger
tips, where I promise
It won’t happen again.

Extra Sugar for the Masses

I wonder if he’s still breathing
said the whisper to the ink,
still drawing blood blisters and
circles in the skin.

The light touch of a ball point
or feathers firm on the bound,
keeping everything in.

I will not let the humors
rise, beyond a major
jar moment.