Eyes See What I See
Lips Who Am I?
Ear Find My Work
What’s Your Mood? What’s Your Mood?
CONNECT Talk to Me
Dear Life
the years cackle
no backrest, no cushion, no shoulder
on which to sleep or perchance, to dream.
all the cross-fitting constellations
have receded their hairlines,
swelled their bellies,
raced towards the ground,
and now they are as unrecognizable as the blank blackness
that keeps them on reserve.
I pointed a finger outdoors, once,
and the trees shook violently.
I thought an earthquake came and went
but the soles of my feet were as still
as the edge of a cliff,
unmoving, unflinching
despite the tide’s seduction.
should I jump?
after all I am the moon’s baby.
I used to live where you lived then,
where you come to be, I’ll be too
but when I arrive you’ll leave,
when you return, I’ll be gone—
the footsteps shall just have to be enough.
you can leave behind a breath for me,
or a tattling canvas of your genomes;
a bone, a tooth, a fingernail,
in pieces, please,
to fit my architectural plans
of the rearrangement and reconstruction
of your facial features and six senses.
over and over again
I’ll come back
to rid you of your errs.
follow me if you must,
so does that yellow stab in the sky—
day after day, it stalks and skulks
and brainwashes the dew into dust.
nothing that’s of real worth on offer—
your body, which you hate,
your mind, which you also hate.
perhaps a landmark,
one that moves with purpose,
like a bird.
I will also ask you to forget you first, though.