four fragments

four moon fragments
my liquid my life
my blood inked
balk, be bashful
but see me
liking these light-frayed edges,
my half born children
their fragile paper flesh.
i left my
insides / out / in
sun
intimate lost limbs
homecoming
pulse
punctuates
everything
sunrises sly through
 
cornfields yawnthe youngest yellow.
choking back the flowers
how well you whistled along
eighth grade our departure;
you: breadwinner
me: wound-licker.
soil
my hand held
hard enough you’d
smile from somewhere?
autumn alone knew the sun
like i tasted it on my tongue
mother’s face like the sky,
will catch you
should you fall.   earth yields
​
file not found.
i forgot faith.
shrapnel exploding in the night,
if you’re lucky it will miss
you entirely.  if not..........:
march off without me
little blond boy
that
ain’t no toy.
just the place for an amped
belligerent baby 19,
always ten to me.
silent action
figure;
my
falling
plastic hero.
dust brown distances
paint
him gently,
perhaps leave the
man a little halo.  His
quiet hands grip a
lethal weapon.  He does not
know how lethal.  His
quiet hands
so devious.
seeking something else
my imperceptivity makes me
smile.  i deal in details.  
the window was open.
more times than once i’ve
not recognized
myself in a mirror.
maybe i shouldn’t
sleepwalk in minefields.
grow toward light. thirst for
daybreak.  then
what?  this
does not meet my
expectations/standards, i’m not
pretty, i want
more,
escape.  i’m building with
these letters, almost like
toys brightly colored. i
am anchored
to
this
moment
​
welcome to my valley of veils
every shaft of light
triggers a contraction
surprised at its own gravity​
shards sometimes reflect
a fatal familiar, but some
sparkle resurrects
methodic deconstruction of
romance.
Catch phrases are very easy to consume.
Don’t you want to be a pretty product?
choking out the reason the rules
air’s growing edges
discourse simplified into
some board game, with bright, shiny pieces
and clear goals and rules and
endings.
once volcanoes winked
across the bay, before the
dark fire swallowed it all, and
language became unwieldly,
insufficient.
barefoot, sky blueing, writing
tomorrow in blue ink blue ink...
my merlot and i are alone�"no
birds sing moring in
one score and four
now, here
people making space, drawing lines
nothing broke this time, i’m broke,
but
last cigarette, last match
-ed.
pale orange light plays with the trunk of
swaying bloom willow
i salute the sun
she smiles
last sip of wine with Waits and i
know the branches are tender,
the willow’s