release prayer #1

let jitters hiss out like / grass-steam at earth-sun awakening & / rose over blanket bloom in daylight petals / brain-wrinkles & shudders ease into the hands shaking in quiet airs / the ceasing is / fleeing-oxygen in a rush & left-behind stillness, stillness in the lungs, stillness in / fingers warping the screens, warming your thumbs in the evening quiets, the drawing of the dew-roots from the heart, the morning rising from your shoulders and / their crests in a calm way, / budding & creaking into soothing mist

Advertisements

land of stagnant wasps

there is violence in trumpet strings, cut deep in the brass-hands / we are pushing air into their /voices; melodic & humming out over / grass isles & the glow in our sky is / heavy with strong-purple clutching rain that climbs back into clouds there / is vapor & honey in your chapstick-touched words pressing me / into / corners and I / like the pressing hands in lead-touch; no-subtlety interrogation tongues tactically dancing around & what / was violence in the strings is quiet coming in heaves now, tranquil & slithering / between our ears, into the old paths wrung by the wasps / carrying still / on the cups and comfortable resting on /

hands & ankles & fingertips & rust & wasp-children, slithering / into canals upon kayaks and marketplaces in old jewels, land / full of waltzing bees & striped creatures /

lying in the vibrations of the bells & you & me bursting-spell in

cocoon body guarding tender-guts; caught / me violent // handled like / cautious kind of choke-hold; hand-hold like / whispers between tree-leaf palms / speaking life into uncut stems, we are / vital-signing into a rib-jail, lucid & inescapable, incomplete / as the excavation of catacombs under / the church, we / are ancient bones bubbling to the surface & wasps / in the night, // children of hornets / with lips of fire and broiling memories / so song-crest violent, un-erasable & full / of kind bruises, forest-cities of clasped hands, self-hearth thoughts / that / we never will forget.

11/30 [perfectionist-ism]

& eating the quiet,

I roll in splinters, kitchen desk scrapes on

my sister’s fingers like something brought home,

knuckles

dirt-filled and cavernous rapping  out Nirvana on

suburban tables, spoons of spilled milk dancing

on television–that movie Fantasia & songs’ hypnotic

writhing through hung & broken silence from bubbling

air conditioner ventilator,

swooning in the depths, & it is the first time he

shows us weak, shows us

imperfect & bedridden by a bee-sting-allergy

this is

metaphor of mistaken weakness sprouting through

perfection-ground crack

that has defined my childhood,

shown the covers & how

perfect smothers

perfect teaches and guides but forgets

to hold,

congratulate & clutch & fail

over

examples like plane and robot-arm pilots of brains

sinking in sky, sinking with clear air

pushing off through bike-race finish lines, sobbing from

pushing in

private school hallways & soccer grass

breathless & streaming through the hills,

stampeding spikes in churning cold mud & heels,

fake injuries & evading failure at

all costs,

shoving all in sugar-hungry mouths like old-fashioned sundae

rotting in heaves,

silent in classrooms

hollowed out &

still

afraid of mistakes

[9/30] end (iii)

iii.

words like entrail nebulae–buying

time and waking in the sky–sputtering out the thoughts

and grips on the plane seat handle, bump-death & all

gyroscopic drops from earth-ceiling, upside below &

scared of eye, scared of mirror, scared to blink between

heart beat on tuesday, fear of machines, fear of gym workout too long

& heart rate & fear from passing out on a track

legs still sprawling, spinning forward & clogging

lanes with air in the hand-runner that picked you up

you could finally imagine it fully, a

trinket-fragile,

impermanent thing.

[end (ii)] 8/30

ii.

cavernous bones & chair-beat

tapping of feet against harsh-wood & harsh-words spitting

from the mouths & there is existence in elevator

ride next to wood grain, self-awareness lurking beneath a tongue

focus guarding from harm, focus on the strong and

the good syllables, singular-drip in singular, wire

in spine-fingers of wraiths

stone tables, thread, & spoken for

4/30

4/30

castle of sand & walkway spiral of saturn-rings

machine-firefly into dark evening sky, lost in aerial whine and

dipping wings aflutter like small & twisting fingers

this is in the cold, this hot and loud, this staring over shoulders in bar corners,

this hovering below the lamplight near strap-dress and spanish eye,

glasses and messy hair pours eyeballs into waterglasses, the blood

of tourists running in gothic streets, recolonization of the capitals as

the money moved overseas, left the countries without legs & ambition

bloated like it was karma,

this shouting from the walls, this from the roofs

this dangling from the beach umbrellas, swimming

in the warm quiet, hands

of broken skin

[3/30] Itadakimasu

[3/30] Itadakimasu

Art by wataboku

[itadakimasu]

orange stillness in the mountain gates, whispers in tongues

white covering the hillsides and streaming down from the clouds fond papers on the tables

I leave the augury to my hotel room, the self-demolition to find the closest thing to a tongue, to find lips that move like sounds, like wooden doors fit perfect into spaces unwarped by minutes,

forever a hearth, forever a paper-crane traveler

forever seated in unknown commissaries & finding no contact, walks with the mountains

instead

the world birthed this journey in saturday mornings and deep nights/ living art shipped into the mind-trunks & bundled across oceans, rubber boots on a hill, were they mine

or yours and did you take me here

who walks behind us in the snow

I have heard their guardians whisper at the peak so I hid inside the graves

walked again into a shop to offer fingernails and the rose of cheeks into plaques I could not read, though I  hear it is fortune, fortune of fools, of the lost & walking into graveyards full of fallen soldiers, dancing crows in the light rain & silent families on the taut side of the screens, sipping the steam, drinking mist, & I stand

watching their prayers melt

into stone