…and we wade in oil, step on broken glass

There is no loss
No forward momentum
The streets are flooded with mosaics
Glass murals stained with flesh and blood
Of our mothers’ belonging and who knew
There were so many shades of red and
Who knew that a scene one thousand one words screaming
Could be sewn shut,

There is loss
There is movement without
But we are not worthy we believe
We are not worthy
It’s not worth it to suffer for the greater good and
We do not properly acknowledge the deaths that come
Knocking at our doors that whisper
Under our treads as we drive ignorant
Drive daydreaming,
No, it’d be a needless sacrifice
A contradiction for we the luminaries
To suffer for one another

There is no loss
Only a life abandoned;
The rotting smell of our mothers’ remains

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Transition; Lack Of

The sun sets at 10
And we do not notice
The sun sets at seven
And still, we do not notice

Until it is summer
Until Autumn
Until radiant energy is bleeding
From our non-radiant palms

Skin inseparable from earth
Earth inseparable from skin
Soil upturned as if raining in reverse
Until daylight is a dream
And we start going to sleep earlier and earlier
With no concrete reason why
We just wake up and look at our hands
We just wake up and look at our hands

Red

There was no where to run so we wept,
As thunder came a freight train
On this crystal clear day we wept
So softly, lightening struck
Water erupted drenched were you,
Drenched was I,
In what colour I have forced
To the back of my mind, I cannot remember
The colour of the water, I have tried so hard to forget

So alone we stood facing one another
A clearing here in this forest of willow
And cedar but mostly in this forest
We were surrounded by the peeling white leather
Of Betula papyrifera,

Our eyes met
Cerulean oceans of German descent,
Black- a beautiful Autumn night of genus Sciurus
And we wept in a mutual moment of understanding,

First silence-a lifetime it felt
As though we had a formed a lasting friendship
Entirely separate from this reality
Then thunder and rain, oh flood waters
I screamed “Where’s Noah’s Arc?” I screamed
But there was no boat
For there was no savior
For I had pulled the trigger
For I can still remember that feeling
As my throat was ripped open and stuffed like a teddy bear

Father smiled,
Yelled “Congratulations!”
As his child drowned
No more than twenty meters away

 

An Uncertainty of Importance

Pine pitch feet dangle

Splash of water proving
Only that this is where I am
That I can distinguish between hot and cold
And this water is black tea
Floral bouquet basking in a setting sun warm

and I smell like shit
Like gay masturbation
Like a nicotine and divorce bonfire

Still surrounding
Amongst familiar paths of a childhood
Long since passed no one speaks

Letting inner sadist run free
I play hooky with mosquitoes and smother
The embers nearly allowing flaxen glitter
To perish before breathing back just enough life,

Another splash
I am here
Feeling only water and diluted rays
Of sunshine stretching sapling liquor thin
Along shallow canyons breaking surface tension
Sink and sink oh liver of mine
One inch at a time,

Translucent wings carry a plump bug away
Leaving an itch and drip of blood-
So this is why the rivers of the Upper Peninsula
All resemble rusty cinnamon- that colour of bad dreams
Lost concentration
Distance a dilemma
Lost in thought
Still getting in places I shouldn’t be
Is it bad timing if I was going to find out regardless?

Kicking a submerged boulder
Tumbling, plummeting
Into turbid tranquility

Could I ever outrun such a burden as this?

Dead Bolt

Constantly rotating images like a small child who
Recently acquired a red Viewmaster
Flipping non-stop
Laughing so joyously in amazement
Such a thing can exist and be held between two hands.
I think about my own throat
Face turning lapis blood vessels
Breaking in attempt to speak and I am laughing
At a 3D image portraying the death of my beloved Betta Fish,
A fillet knife resting on the table
His eyes looking up at me,
Ever running and rotating
It’s not necessarily a fantasy
Metaphor alluding to a deep rooted feeling of loss or anger
An apple once swallowed
That settled down and never came out
Every time I look in the mirror
My hands are my hands and
My face is my own but with something missing,
Not some sudden emotion that’ll pass or rot
This thought loves me and I’ve been
Biting my tongue on saying it back
Not wanting to admit that violence is my true passion
There’s enough awareness to not walk
On that side of the street anymore avoid
Making eye contact lock the door
In a neighborhood once claimed safe.
I’ve grown old, tired of pain
Being the key to happiness tired
Of constantly changing the locks
Yet always waking up to breakfast in bed,
Settling for acceptance over relief,
Dysphoria over amendment
Feeling whole isn’t worth it
If all the pieces are broken