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

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Cricket Song

Humid evening
Disease Circulating,
Off away in presence of a fawn
Safely stumbling towards an old apple tree
Position staggered and turned twisted
Revealing only a two dimensional outline,
Swirled fingers past eye sight
Just far enough to remain unnoticed
Animating tree branches
Took flowers assumed,
Carved puppets from flesh and chlorophyll,
Braided hair attached at knuckle,
Fell to compost
A cardinal feeding it’s mate,
A mother building her nest,
Shaving legs to feel closer
An electric razor sat on glass
Quiet to be passed off
As a rabbit running to cedar underbrush,
Took sips breathing
Fresh squeezed pure and elegant
The air endemic,
A virus spreading
Bug bitten
Shedding skin
And hair
And all the things that hold people together,
Shave
Cut loose,
Fear tonight
No more
Timid freshly born,
The apples are ripe and within reach

Drowning In Concord

Kaleidoscope sunrise shining collateral
In confidence of vulnerable precedence

Swallowing thorn bushes
To spit out another womb
Nimble grass matted down to make room
For another bout of fermentation-
Fighting newborn flesh with steel and glass

Almost as said simply
If a loss is required
It’s better to offer a facet
Never rightly experienced

Living postmortem is nearly justified
Accepted as reality
For having a heartbeat,
The consequence of loving every meteor shower
Escaping beautiful temptation
Of lighter
And reclamation
Of summer evening,
Fingers furrow passion
For any sign of amelioration
Passage is inescapable
But progress lies
Buried in an elusive state
Of suspension,
Choking down heavy moisture
A recondite sigh grows accustomed
To liquidating human requirements
With each movement made,
The body becomes a staggered succession
Of pallid footprints
Retreating to an unaltered imperative
Of nothingness

Feeling natural was too much to cherish