Alarm Call
Hands grasp the procession, (I have walked this earth)
the in-between
I search for what feels like every version I’ve been told I am/
A stoic face, a dented cheek
(it doesn’t scare me at all)
Anything worth fighting for
(you can’t say no to hope)
In the web,
we can get specific
and when we stumble,
it’s hard to stop
A small room fills the nostrils,
I spend days counting the veins in my hands,
a small road back to wherever I’m from —or headed
The soundtrack of severing includes gusto and secretion
The blood of nostalgia
Where do we go when we steep?
(I’m no fucking Buddhist)
Spirits float from our hands
to the wall,
to the hands—a procession
(this is enlightenment)
Pluto
he came and stole
whatever he saw glowed
and filled me with a hope,
a knowing
that whatever lived in him
lived in me too
(excuse me, but I just have to, explode, explode this body off me)
my mind keeps calling
and I refuse—
it is a temporal storm without casualties
(I’ll be brand new, brand new tomorrow)
I always witnessed him as a misfire
pretending all the signs said,
“RUN AWAY,”
instead of
“PAY ATTENTION.”
Without self-reflection, there is no god.
All Is Full Of Love
It is only me identifying,
reviving
(you have to trust it)
the gentleness that I butcher while tending to its garden
I want to tell you a story of will, (maybe not from the sources)
how limbs are animated by the thought of allowing them
How Venus follows me, but Zeus sets me on fire
(maybe not from the directions)
How I funnel what I’ve discovered and run away from the asterisk
I am detached, a severed head/ a vigil
(your phone is off the hook)
I see you as the tree, its branches, the soil, roots, and the rain that made it grow
(all is full of love)
The hands that tended it, the fruit it will design, the mouths that will speak of it,
the sky that watches it and the lovers who will wince underneath it
(all is full of love)
It’s a solitary thing
(twist your head around)
Alien Buddha Press 