16 June 2017 @ 07:06 pm
I crawled out through the hotel window,
and lay slaughtered on the roof, thinking:

Nothing is beautiful here: even the thousand
suns struggle to provoke a light of healing
rather than scorching. I felt the gold cut
through me and cauterise the wound. half-
finished and aching, I was a dangerous thing
—an injured animal still hunting. Birds
flinched from my hands and flowers
withered into kindling. My own blood
refused to run through my fingers. I was
incessant, perpetual—running barefoot
through the woods towards the creaking
heart of my body. Only rain came out to
greet me as it struck the undergrowth
with an open palm. I ran like a bush fire
was chasing. Salt settled into the ground
behind me, and the pulse of the earth
stuttered and was slowing.
14 June 2017 @ 06:48 pm

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11 June 2017 @ 07:38 am
The storm is over; too bad I say.
       At least storms are clear
about their dangerous intent.

Ordinary days are what I fear,
      the sneaky speed
with which noon arrives, the sun

shining while a government darkens
      a decade, or a man
falls out of love. I fear the solace

of repetition, a withheld slap in the face.
     Someone is singing
in Portugal. Here the mockingbird

is a crow and a grackle, then a cat.
    So many things
happening at once. If I decide

to turn over my desk, go privately wild,
     trash the house,
no one across town will know.

I must insist how disturbing this is—
     the necessity
of going public, of being a fool.