it is whatever you think it is.

Baths    from the sketchbook of Edgar Degas (1834-1917)

small fragments like dust in the air or scattered thoughts around the house. dirty inhibitions. a void. there’s a void out there so black and dense you can’t even see it, sense it. it covers it all, it will pull bare breaths away, the senses. sense it. avoid it, these words of inability. crave the shakes up your spine, the dumb fuck until there’s nothing left to give or take. take it, throw it off some distant cliff in the south, what is  it, this ugly box, she asks with eyes so dull and oddly remote. rip the walls out, she says. don’t listen to them and never listen to yourself and cover your eyes, your ears, your mouth, cover your legs. cover it knee-deep at roadsides. all those things you want to do, all the things. pull them long and pull them off and let them slide down the drain like wet hairs. signs are meaningless. it’s a trick, didn’t you know?

just talk

Nights of sticky skin, swelling bones,
a body snatcher
thought catcher
reaching for my brain with cuts of stone.
I hear them rattling in your breast pocket
Clueless moans
or not,
I can see it coming through paper eyelids,
a lucid dream.

Sweat against thirst,
drink it throat-deep, stay asleep, stay put.
You saw me first with city lights
crawling at my feet
wrapped in yellow white
highways and beating blood.
I grabbed a muddy heart from your open chest
the gleaming ribs
a rusty shipwreck off some forgotten shore.

What will force these scenes away.

Dark rooms
in the day, stay
until my hair forms a circle
a golden brown or soft ground or grave.
Paper lids,
across glass eye beads.