Caspian

When the evening is down,

An eagerness fills me,

No move by the banks,

All sound reigned and focused.

Bumped by my oar,

Lucent amongst midnights,

Your face slept alone.

Bending to the side,

Nearly slipping in myself,

To grab your sopping little coat,

and pull you to me.

I could carry you to my wife,

Or her sisters, they would keep you.

But you know as well as I,

There are no worlds after this one.

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miles and miles and miles

The spirit must be exorcised
else it become plump and resigned
to being loved

and the spirit is circularly interrogated

the modern age may be defined by reflections that sound like proclamations and proclamations which sound like reflections and cursory circular responses that submerge and hold meaning under
else there is no truth and it’s all been a come on…

comes one.
waiting for god, the circulatory lover
who courses through and warms
every part.

for god jumps out of a moving car and lives
for god braces your crooked leg
what do these mean, they are funny, but they conjure an image of loving

it is a common misconception that love is there from the start — no, what’s there is prairie grass for miles and miles and miles.

the desert face

the desert face may call
any simpering one, flush
and grip it in burn
no more than an hour passed

to find it then wilted, or —
those smart will have to hide…
or, they wait as long
as they can
but they will drink on one another
and still die

some things cannot be carried
some will be left behind

would you believe it
the brutal face is the generous face
coming, to be brought out by other hands
some way

 

in me you are a secret
this phenom under a lyric wresting
profound to me and only a few we know
but once to words the words will live as they are meant

you is no matter of fact
scared to be holding on and out of control
i laugh big tears
the outside is asking for you to be
from a tense head, i must admit
you are meant to be expressed
what will contraction sound
born from me and pushed through my mind

 

phenomenon

my life is returning to me
through the sensation of turning corners
in different cities in different stages of light
innocuous sites untethered from why

i find, i am living through peripheral people
watching high, knowing them without any of it
being true
finding my self at an old job,
but the furniture has moved
all configurations tried
another girl in my eyes

june comes closer
but my head is down, i am carving through the past
a finger on the network
without why

i’m just trying
to read about the future, in fact
it was an article about
the end of the world,
but she contorts my vision back
a tick, a latitude
registering each synapse
the will to fire