t: 07.22.06

He blamed me, but he didn't stop fucking me.

Most times, I didn't mind. I really couldn't mind -- he was the only other set of human eyes in the world, and it was dark and dead compared to Eden. We still got along all right, but there was a distance in him that was just as bittersweet as our first time under the tree.

After his body had spit into mine, he would collapse into my breasts, sigh my name once in resignation, and go tend to the fields.

In the Garden, he had been happy, and I had been happy to come from and be part of him. Now, he had withdrawn; I was a chestless bone wandering besides my flesh and blood.

The children had his Eden-eyes, the eyes he had before they took on the dull dust of Earth. It reminded me of the mossy patch beside two cores of fruit and knowing that we could die for these sins.

t: 07.22.05

closed eyes draw calligraphy on
parchment skin
sleep like feathersoft quill

watch you, watch sleep
in difference, alert

flickersoft, eyelashes
are calligraphy of sleep on
parchment pale skin

alert lids are ajar
are lips that suck
on silhouettes
are shaping endless
archetypes on
slumbering form

t: 07.22.04

slavery in a modern context

working to buy things you "need"
even though for the most part need is illusory

everyone once had dreams that drowned in practicality
suffocation of aspiration

t: 07.22.03

divine right of kings

Elizabeth II
put an oak between her legs
and made herself a lion for it.

t: 07.22.02

O say, what is truth?

I can't find it. I'm trying.
I have no dead stories, no tapestry to read from
anymore, no one to firmly
grasp me and pull, or anyone to whisper
gentleness to my listening.

So, I listen with open eyes
to all crossing pilgrims,
their firm resolve a looping journey through me.
The paths they forge so proudly
crust over with time, become vaguely treaded grass.

They say it is truth.
I can't see it. I'm watching silent.
It never takes root in my tongue.

p: 07.22.01

found you curled up in my socks
a faded mouseman
married to the wool i wore
married to the shoe i stole
eyes full of death

tripped on your little corpse
a shocked lovelace
pattern of your broken skin
pattern of your bones dug in
blood of an accident

p: 07.11.01

father deals with fear in anger
coils quicker than a snake to strike
his swearing falls on shocked ears
and his insults curl
flightpath of a boomerang
to strike him in the head

t: 07.06.03

how long til all these lines blur together
infinite curves in thick oils
sliding from moment to next
lubricated against the friction of difference

t: 07.06.02

peel like skin
edges of mistakes
underneath new layers
to carve in

t: 07.06.01

i think about thick skins grinding gears
people who think they know and like me
i switch like a mad cat, don't i?
you don't know much