sum it

feet nailed to the ground I build
my tower to you, whose apex
shrugs into clouds, reduced
oxygen levels restrict breathing

but I can't lift my head that high

so I split my sides at the thought
keep laying on the bricks
somehow, this is enough; this spire
extending all the way from my spine

fever

soft music, the smell of nutmeg drifting
through the cabin, flames casting shadows
in dizzying arcs all across the walls
breath-fogged windows coated
with crystalline ice clusters

crackling, from the fireplace and speaker
as needle drags through groove
like carving fresh wounds from old scars
a tragic thrum binding some mournful
angel, whose wings spread inside her throat

she must have been as cold
as the fire, itself burning as if to store
enough heat to remain alight, whilst
splotches of blood trail outside
through an open door, onward into snow

a strong gust could interrupt the needle
but the silence is already deeper
than a loss in the perception of sound
where the trail ends, a body
lies face down, one arm outstretched

the other, clutching at the stomach

(worth) lying about

I packed all my things
so that I could tuck them in a different closet
in a model home with a balcony
I've always wanted to emerge from a room
with sliding doors, to overlook
cascades of chrysanthemums
and balustrades entwined with ivy
rather than contemplate empty beer cans and a tent
which, having survived the soft snow's
immense weight, the squalls and tremors
that betrayed absolutely no pain
are worth nothing lying about

in how few or how many words
may I describe how it feels
to be unable to feel?
the point is that sometimes, when my stomach rumbles
my heart quickens its pace
I open up like a budding flower
the corners of my mouth curling up into a smile
because I am able to feel everything without
touching, tasting, seeing, hearing, smelling
or in any way feeling it
because it is not around me
but I am strong enough to construct it
from the scraps I find lying about

the trouble with pursuit

a fragmented network of thoughts
I've fashioned the key
ring from the inklings
leaking out of the cracks of my own skin

impish little insights
cavernous depths for meager frames
and I'll turn each key
until it turns
the handle I've been fumbling for

and every word wears every word
as a cloak

and every hole is there to snatch
your stark naked eyes

and when the masks shatter at feet
no one will be concerned with ownership

I will grit my teeth, roll up my sleeves
clench my fists, and fortify my gut
brave the darkness
and you

key key key key key key key key
key key key key key key key key
key key key key key key key key
key key key key key key key key
key key key key key key key key

the door swings, not open
for there awaits yet another door

words

floating freely in the non-light
weightless, fleshless, no place to hold
what I believe to be my self

only tendrils of color mimicking landscapes
in alternating instants of false clarity

I begin to see a woman flailing her arms
jerking back and forth in the vacuum
of godless space

a screaming mother wrenching
loose from the moorings of paradise
blood seeping, solid amethyst beads
a color more like poison
peppering her filthy rags

or crashing in deliberately chiseled waves
pouring from her exposed chest cavity
as the dream itself recombines

it is my mother, and her arms
have been robbed of strength
gravity, love, tenderness
they are just blades of grass
in an aimless, violent wind

the blending landscapes in my mind
fail me miserably, but their scope
is more than I can perceive, as when

I wake
to see her
jerking back and forth in her chair
arms flailing
her hair matted and coiled
and I reach out to her
and I am not recognized
so much as acknowledged
a fellow
wandering a shimmering horizon
searching for the right words
that will sort everything out
once and for all