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

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[10/30] lisboa

there are legs growing from the ceiling staples

walking in heaves from boards and painted dry
there is threat in red mouth, wandering the brooks of cobble and gasping forward, lurching of teeth
soft-rolling of dentyne serpent, pair of rivers as pride, matted hair statue colonist painted himself gold
stood in the middle of the market, supple coins in tourist pockets, and holes
of jogging pant plaster writhing up walls
gaps in the spine and breast of
spray-designed dancer, machinist and losing
air from the gouges in the lung-pipe metal,
opening into streets, into two rivers, into blood floating out into the avenues of europe
on the bodies, on the chattel, on the human faces I sit nightly, on the writhing masses of history, on the hands that broke with sweat and blister, gathering in the night, dead and silent in the holds, swarming flies and clutches, man looking like me
packed this in, pushed back borders, burned
and looted continent, drags in wall, drags in city of blood and statue grows from pavement,
statue in own image, statue like
eyes,
statues like green gifts from other predatory nations, floating off the shore, drifting into the deep into the mouths of ruined ships filled
with corpses
that we forgot to make monuments for

[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

7/30 [end]

i.

bite the cheeksides into rot &

turn hands as they go limp, legs festering in

pillows and damp jeans & sweat driven from the brain-work raining

from hair-forest,

weak & molting on ground; creaking of knee in dusk

walking to feel like alone, like imagine what it was

to breathe in another body

understand thoughts of hives buzzing around me,

tensions in the air space waiting above my head,

caterpillar like the handles of gates in ice-winter

chrysalis of skin and blood,

growing around bone

holding me close

[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

[2/30] run

[2/30] run

Art by Citlali Haro

[RUN]

crawl into the earth

live in bursting. I have breathless soaring on my mind

alone on gravel fields with steam on my chest & you

running in the air pitching outwards ahead of fishing line legs casting into deep grass & the churns of soil risen in the morning air

sprinting out of shoes, wheels falling off into dusts and lung pumps gushing forth in morning breeze of wild birds, alone

grains in my hair and sand, most mortal when I can forget I am mortal

feeling one with the rushing winds, as I was born to, wilderness of oxygen speaking in my ear

quiet words of grass & rock, of rusting animal lurking between my temples, alive, alive, alive & springing into early mist-fumes reaching out of primal forest beneath evergreen boughs in the distance, we will meet & dine on flesh in moonlight, I

will break from this skin; tectonic writhing from chrysalis-body & run again, like I used to, like legs unweighted by bones & age, like unweighted bones lacking the burden of veins, nothing to carry anymore & nothing the same but the beating steps, forward into dawn, forward into the outer-reaches of the life-woods, forward into forgotten lakes and nascent buds of future selves, forward until your hands shake and it all falls away in the side of your vision, forward as the tunnel closes, as the legs give way, as the feet wear to bone, and the voice-light itself just

[goes out]