Poems

Pressurized Trust

I Saw Gold

I’m In It

Sometimes Scales

Om Trayambakam

There’s Nothing Left

Dragon Dissolves

The Sheen

Slim Chance

I Found A Future

Sunlight

Pressurized trust
becomes God.

When water is
denser than stone,
the center is
a ripened root.

Nothing of you could
survive there.

Listen — not to me,
but to the psalm
of molten marrow;
to every angel’s blood
— a vicious neutron nectar,

I saw gold, I saw south,
I dreamed greens, but thieved.

A beauty from the delta with
owl constellations in the turning.

all who spirited away my aurora
— may they be reconfigured.

May it fall through stone
like the glass blade of a winter rite.

May it never roam alone,
Bring me the loyalty of the living light.

Om Trayambakam,
the deathless eye

in void of place
in heart of space

to see, to really See
is to deflate
what can’t stand
without invisible pillars
imaginary pillars
Wile E. Coyote pillars

don’t look down
don’t look up
don’t look
look

there’s nothing left
to be but three
poets in a trenchcoat

gunmetal nectarine
between Kali’s teeth
Shiva’s thumb bruising
a ceramic peach.

this world, mostly
séance & sedition
cuz there’s nothing left to be.

I’m in it, I’ve been in it
jawbone, ligament,
this love and this frisson

what the fuck even is this
frisson or neuropathy?
chasing mission, or monotony?
just let me love, just
let me love, just let
me love

The sheen of obsidian,
Lodged obscenely in the yellowed
Bone under museum lights.

Every shattered shadow glistens.
“This too was mission.”
This, too, was Mission.

I found a future under someone’s
Star. Don’t let anyone hold
You who can’t hold their own
Heart without
Burning it.

The gods have different
Rules for poets, so
Write one every day and
They’ll only shatter
You where you need
To be.

sometimes scales
balance by
falling from
your eyes

slim chance in the thick of it
too many airports and
the waft of imitation crab

I heard you out and I’m
too tender I want
to hear the hymn your
collarbone grew from

the psalter of your body,
songs I want to sing and
honey I want to lick from
the creases on either side of your

— through how many countries have
I dragged this heartbreak over
ragged asphalt and gravel?
too many to count
(I’m being dramatic
the answer is 4.)

I’m allowed to be dramatic
I’m allowed to be dramatic
from this porcupine belly
in a place just past failed
I’m asking nicely —
don’t do
it again

sunlight detonates down
my spine,
syrupy pulses of amber
trickling
into the smooth blue orb
in the center of my pelvis
and I —

it’s funny, I didn’t talk
to you for a couple days
and I felt
you there, in the air, in the
light, luminiferous M______

I wrote down “she
feels like patience, like
the part of me that could
sit forever without
her or forever with her and
both ways
it doesn’t matter, I
still feel her in my nerves,
in my nadis and srotas and
the passageways where I
usually host the gods, but
she seems to
belong there
with equally assured presence.”

I don’t know the polite or sane
way to say that it
doesn’t matter if I’m with
you or not, either way you
are alive in my body.

Very few beings
have lived in this body,
animated its limbs and
limned its animal and
welcome to the club, I guess.

dragon dissolves in
the crescent blue,
there is no way to translate how
”liar” and “lie” are the same
word in his tongue.

I suspect that in the case of angels,
“message” is not other than “messenger”
the medium is the message,
the deity is the miracle
the madman is the vision.

wheels of eyes on the horizon
wheels of flame in the earth
wheels of every word you ever
said to me, spinning my gut in knots.

time is not on our side, but
god is time and god is on our side, so —

so.

The scent of you a subtle buzz
in the center of my chest,
thrumming louder & louder it shines
with fecund flavor & a longing
for oh god a longing for oh god this
longing for

a lightning storm in the tarry
black of space,
— great pregnant heaving

I have streaked my
forehead with three fingers
dusted in what
stuck to them
when I reached
into my chest —

that charnel heath
of ache & ash

There is a vulva in the sky
slick as rain, nectar
sliding down the thighs of creation

To run your tongue
along a single traced trail
is to be bloomed
by all the amrita & nepenthe
in the garden —

Mirrors & devils are the only
constants in a world where
hunger drives all.

The desert dunes slacken & tighten
& burst like a zit or sac of spider eggs.

You remember it, the horror, the dream &
waking in sweat & those thousand
tiny legs in a scurry to live in a scurry to
exist a little longer while you crushed
their wilted bodies with the heel
of your fanatic little fist.

The desert goes quiet & the
sense-memory of small vaporous lives
smeared by a dreamtime fit.