the brush of a coarse drape against an open wound, which will seal itself in wilted skin
and plummet into a mine of violent isolation, where the oracles are swallowed, broken teeth
and shivering organs harmed by the frankness of rage
jarred and transformed into rigid, immovable stone.
The sage brush in the pit of his throat guards against the output of hope
and he maniacally dances in a river of depraved, life-denying conclusions
whose tributaries spread deprivation and the mangled shadows of his flailing, barbarous limbs
flickers of weak, damp electricity in a condemned building
whose tenant brandishes bouquets of unnatural deadness and rests in slabs of seconds.
Cross-eyed from dementia, veins either frigidly inactive or pulsating uncontrollably,
he quivers in each complicated moment
as spiders graze upon his shoulder, extract his blood in the truth of daylight
and he yields to annihilation's crawl.
On clear nights he dissipates into thousands of salmon-colored specs
and plasters his body to a remote stone wall, to hear the faint sounds of a pipe organ
which with each pressed pedal, resuscitates his tired lungs with vibrant air
crumbling the prisons of cacophonous thought, pausing the clamor of exhausted shoes
flooding his garden of embitterment.
But when the sensation has diminished, he feels unworthy of pleasure
a dragon whose heart has burst
from guarding alone a cache of treasure
that no one values and no one visits.
Omens appear above me, threading the borders of reality and boundless chaos
the stirring evidence of our dialogue, a cross-dimensional collage
pasted by stable, determined hands, which expand and creak like aging floors
intent on sharing the pains of growth.
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