Mic check one two, one two,
this ripped seam soul knows no rest, it’s true.
I have no peace in my cracked glass heart,
my lips are black with hereditary tar-
my guilty gut churns the earth
with this cover
like an oil spill in the salt and sweat
of our mother.
Did you know that in the old days-
(in the words of the babe
which shares our face,
“in olden timey”) –
they used to make a distillate
of pine sap gum and
they would soak a sugar cube in the solvent.
They would eat that like medicine
and the parasites
in their bodies would rush to the sugar
and quickly die when they came into contact
with the bitter truth of those sweet roots?
And then the magnificent human body
would dispose of their seething little corpses like greying pulp from fruits
long since consumed.
Before I take my leave,
can you point me to the recipe for this juice?
I want you to know that
I have rested in your cool shade
with the empty cavern of my chest
pooling with tears for so long that
there is no sound to sate
your face as it falls somber
through my ribcage
like a Dali clock.
And I am building up my confidence
to save you from it, babe.
You should know
that I have admired you like the redwoods
that towered over our heads
when we had a picnic
by the side of the highway
a lifetime ago.
The air smelled like maple and sun.
We laughed and cried and fought
like two possums over crumbs
because we were finally
disappearing in a dream,
we were at long last
living on the run like
convicts or immigrants or
black sheep sons.
I have wandered into the deep
impossible glowing green of your eyes
and let myself die in their kindness,
and it was a mercy,
and I slept so sweet.
I have pressed my budding chest
to your broad fortress breadth
and felt the pressure whistle out of me
like a pierced balloon.
After which, I’m sure you remember,
I was deflated and small,
I was ripping my hair and tearing my clothes
in the echo chamber of my own vulnerability.
To what do I owe the pleasure of
a shared misery with you?
To what end will I drag your love
behind my driverless carriage?
Will I rip you to ribbons on my edges
simply because you insist on it?
And do the lines I draw disappear in the dust-
am I entitled to demand
the conditions of my trust
as the sinkhole of my soul
sucks you slowly slowly slowly
into the melting mantle with me?
Did you know that the earth’s mantle
would be green if it wasn’t red hot?
Did you know that all of our memories
are like files in a computer,
little yellow folder icons
that can be easily misplaced or
In the annals of neurological synapses
like a hot flare of light
the world forgetting, by the world forgot.
How happy indeed
is the blameless vestal’s lot?