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the un-moveable, un-lion, roar-shut me; a bouquet of new fatigues – chlorophyll rich (hospital clutches and lilies with dinner-groceries); a kiss-based game of telephone, loan me that last embrace, pass it to the end of its path; sparse standing in perfectly spaced chaos on the dawning patch of grass, just below a tree filled with yellow canaries in brand new repose – on the event of earth’s pulse interrupted by expected demise; a black trash bag moves across your lane on the freeway like an inklot ballast, wayward from its core at the center of a landscape’s ravine from a 19th century portrait of America, homed to a living room that never belonged to you, that you visited once a month or so for a decade; life before the county put concrete between our houses, a soft place for our cars to traverse, before the sun set across a driveway in long legs it expanded in gravelled fidgets; this is my travel toward a be-stilled heart

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elaborate, strenuous, expensive beauty – unbought and rare-traded from my childhood trust; o perfect and terrible, high-high or something extreme; found the memory of all sad things and put them in a shrine function, told them to stay put and they did, prayed to them without a sliver of wind to make a misstep, how did this happen; i have something so good in you, so strange that i am a slave to it, couldnt regret it if i tried, couldnt cry if i were paid; the chance of us being distant, of looking at eachother in some new way, this would have never been a thing for me to choose three years ago when i wanted to own everything even the opinions of others; i am exhausted by the constant onslaught of things i always wanted and now have; put me in a bear trap and leave me for the lofty to nibble on as a mid-morning snack

do me the favor of opposing me; stuck-out me too far outside of myself and into the trees; and words, one of the last devices i have left to save me from this pit; the bank of our shared sorrows; hard not to empty myself and be as perverse as you need me to be; under tongue, over sea, do you remember that time i fell asleep on a catamaran and woke up on a manta ray eating phosphorescent orgies of micro-life; your rich taste covers me and i walk the block with a handful of wet-dog eyes grappling the pathway to outside

sure, i met you and then spent a long time trying to learn not to trust that you are correct, this is a common process and i should not feel bad; ylang ylang goes red when you leave it in your car – the life is exhausted from the mass and sticks to everything it can; read a few entries on the internet about how to make your own cloud in a 2 liter bottle, how do coral make cloud, how am i not a coral, how is coral more me than me, my own skin, my own nails; the ocean, a ghost from a time when i was so horribly open that i couldve been dragged into any firing range and left to grow some honor

broken by you put down and shouldered by you, all prepositioned you propositioned by you by my being too-near, you, focus in and in and zoom-trooping the pores in magnitude, unnerving, servitude o you, o clumsy you mooned by me and the possibility of me again, you and then me again like too-fast light flicking from a slit in a rotating lampshade meant to trick you into thinking it never left, the light it never left the light like the last crinkled sigh of a ship making home at the bottom of the sea

laugh when you peel your leggings off to show me a tattoo of a beaver; boom-rays sift-lifting off the pier, too much blue in this light; i dont, and still there is adjustment to unrefracted, untempered, unstoppable, cloudless clop of pure fucking light all over me; nordic times in your basement – making the spare eyelash of a heavy flashlight move across too many surfaces to do any good (light lost in a bushel of jackets, this strange weather enchant you from your trunk and closet); small world over here with roaches captaining spread-it squad across this bullshit paradigm

a dream where i give you strange permission to pull the keep off my hair and let it down in dollops; these days i sleep close to the river or at least the sound of the earth moving when no one is looking; we laugh about the benthic zone but i know that i store the smell of stress there – turquoise bust of caesar looking disdainfully at civic acts; im asked to be on paper, please be signed up and signed in, take this coat and make it protect you, do what youve always done but let them see it, let them take the thing you most-loved about the chance, the truest part of doing good (that it happened in secret); sometimes after a shower i shake like a dog and hope the air up-and-outs all the badges i keep to remember that i ever did anything right; God doesnt take the time to punish anyone with accuracy – it’s in waves – i have to kill that man – i will kill everything that’s ever seen his face