Red Berries
Sweet
like red berries
rolled ‘round the mouth,
juice licks the tongue
on the way d
o
w
n
in cascades
of sugar and fire
that candy breath
and lies we tell
b e y o n d
the fall of night
and quiver
of aching thigh
on a hot cheek.
Why speak? Just C
R
A
S
H
into you
into me
into the black
of little deaths
and the sweet of blood honey.
Medicine
You are my medicine when things are
fever-pitched
fucked-up
shit
dismantled
glitched.
When calm disperses—cigarette smoke in fan blades, overhead—
tarring popcorn ceilings and textured walls with burns and invisible drops of carcinogenic rain.
What better salve for poundings in my chest—
palpitations
consternations
vascularizations
reformations
indemnifications of a life, juxtaposed, away from those eyes
that mouth
that touch of skin, yours,
the sedation of cool breath on a hot forehead and the combing of fingertips through hot sweat and hair—
the world I know.
You
are
my
medicine.
Tabula Rasa
Sleep dissolves
like sugar on the tongue,
as orange-blue Morning
gingerly slices shadow
through dusty blinds
and eyelids
with accommodating peeks
and a razor’s kiss.
Familiar smells of
old cigarette and musky sheets,
spit on the pillowcase and sweaty hound,
herald the new day—
a resurrection—
as the anima
settles in—home—
into stiffened sinew
and old bones
from celestial traversings
(in light, in dark)
at the end of a silver leash.
Born, again,
expelled
through the gate of Consciousness
with a blank slate,
into the world of
light and shadow,
smoke and mirror,
I resist the urge
to rise
and rewrite
the same old story.
Golden Calves
Words
of PrOphETS
don’t rage, fiery, in the sky
or scar pristine faces
of sapphire
on holy mountain tops.
No.
No point in lookin’.
They hide in plain sight
like houses in need of a flip,
awaiting epiphanies
and big reveals.
Folds of clumsy-cut loose-leaf.
Coyish peeks of ink
above white, starched collars.
Tags on empty subway cars and hearts.
Silent lovers at kitchen tables
topped with cups of cold coffee
and clean spoons.
They’re there—
everywhere—like oxygen
if we’d just rub the sleep
from our eyes and
see.
Dumpster Fire Press 