Words About Some Things

the articulated sounds I have made

to throw a blind dart at the target of

what happens keep falling short

and arcing away, my murder mirrors

and throat fires and gut strings

beat tiny fists against padded

walls crying to be heard,

beyond rescue.

.

there are things to say about time

and distance and irony that are being said

better than I will say them, I am tired

from pulling against formless

draw-and-quarter horses spurred

by cynics hungry for something honest

to be destroyed for the sake of

being honest.

.

the last thing I have left is

speechlessness when

an involuntary agh sighs

through a collapsing chest

and speaks volumes, hold

me.

Belly Hums

I am grateful for the pictures flashing

between my ears when hearing what

plucks my gut strings.

.

i don’t have a lot of the strong or smart

or shrewd but maybe some part of

the good, I hope.

Throat Fire Aesthetic

let’s yell at each other for a while.

it will heal our hearts and afterward

we’ll need cough medicine, which will

make us sleep like babies.

.

there’s nothing left to fight over.

all buildings are destroyed and our

ideas have jumped from our skulls to grow

in the dirt. we will join them someday

to feed them not just with our heads

but with our whole bodies.

.

I waste so much time

not doing what I want to do

and not saying what I want to say.

everything I have ever loved is burning.

what else is there to make you understand?

.

drag your grosgrain bow

across these gut strings and

make them sing.