hyperfluxy

you among the architecture “these are the bad years,” you tell me, looking somewhere off into the distance, into the hydrogen and carbon, the silicone as if it could be measured, including names and numbers that bear no meaning, like the number of times it took  you to learn to be your own company it was during of these enduring summer days where all the seasons merged— spring flaunted all its fall colors, but winter kept its face— I remember your crooked teeth, my shattering into existence and my mind erupts into a ticking frenzy of seeing everything material melting into view names of things and places as I&r

everything’s so real, you said trailing your hand across the nape of your neck, watching the fog crawl over, simulating the shiver. I spoke the words and begged them, for once— begged them not to let their selves destroy you, but rather bring you into view not the fog but what it brings into appearance when it is rubbed away— my lonesome emulation of that world, existing on the path made in lieu all the damage caused with my missteps. don’t you see how we have ruined everything, by receiving everything we wanted? I love you with the star shattering force of all the countless lives you’ve led and all thos

perfection is not harbored. it sits In the corner of your arm, bent, unnoticed and refrained, becoming you until you think it that it is  empty reflecting both you and sun so easily an empty house containing  everything that nothing enters through it and has begun to write again— do not be afraid of it for this is how we are made, becoming and becoming until every vision falling is familiar because you have anticipated yourself to be in the caress of that same lover inhibiting these pages.

i am not afraid of death.                  i did not want the boy beneath the apple trees, or the cherry petals in the orchard, touched with invisible fingers leaving brown indentations, bruised with your inflection even on the brink of spring not the one littered under the sunlit twigs grappling for heaven But the one lying exactly center field staring straight at the sky-- waiting for a crash of thunder for the paper flowers, metaphor for holding over the sills of everything transient, and left for erasing-- like a soul brimming over the bridge of an emotion strong enough to overcome itself. brave boy with a thousand faces-- i see

this is what revelation feels like: saltwater, hair clung to your shoulders in the shower on a wednesday afternoon and in two hands that had been used for prayer and writing poetry to prove your unattachment what better time and place to be binded by misunderstanding? i have become the person that you used to see in me and you have become reassumed like the sky, resumed into a thousand voices calling me home

adam i have called for you, in the empty chasm hidden in the other two syllables of your name split straight out of the boundary that has resided in my skin ever since i had taken the fruit from the tree and it is in me that the capacity for blame will become manifested will fester first and then be born a bastard, singularity- it is here that i will hold nothing and clutch everything in the pit of my stomach and even though you will come to understand one day, enough to see me laid into the earth as your supper, grown into the same oak that my lover was, enough to see me shaped, a whisper telling you good night to remind you of the spa

  winter left you for its love of sadness but i was left here to break myself open; my bone marrow rich with fertile soil legs thrumming with life, confined circulation beneath the skin split.) You are borne in the atmosphere- riddled like the tethered stretch of mountain just before rainfall like a canvas to innumerate springtime like the river to carry it forth or a rock to tarry us down having been reassumed in earth so as to find eternity perhaps in her: quiet moment of autumn, turning ceaselessly before a mirror but never seeing the entirety in which your goal is to find solace but eternity is not a still moment, it

last night, before you slept you found the world awake, waiting like a panther, on silent haunches. you held her, like the last repeating date of the century, between clenched teeth (like the little punch of electricity beneath your skin before the light fails ) to the bathroom mirror where she left you with sequence: the loveliness of your consciousness, sown into the earth. If you could speak, you’d tell me of the sound your mind presumes the light makes, reflected off the walls of your cathedral house. (you hold the edge of bathtub like you would the string of a guitar, the release of which is dependent on the absent fall

At the house, she becomes too free given your attention, she becomes the being less than what she is, granted your love; the shell of a being, reduced to her skeleton; given your eyes, she is nothing like the ocean but the husk of living, she is the muse you are allowed to only guess at, the smallest action enough to break your heart expressed only roughly, as a sketch of that which you have meant to say: 'there is life,' your white knuckles pressed against cold satin, on the brink between what you intended,  the movement of your hands hooked into the pocket of your shirt, or the stepping out of a door: framed in hesitation like seaweed swep

Heaven can be reached. On the quiet nights I ask you why night has to fall for silence, why we must fall for dissonance in order to achieve harmony, to reach the strength and composure necessary for allowing me to write you silly drafts for all the things you've said . You don't know, you say, (looking for the comet that has taken us years to pull from the sky) gravity: the pull which shapes you into a mirror for the same sun which overcomes you, scalds you for the sake of all you are- it has been a year and you are still not the same fire that your mother had intended, and you are not the same fire that has pulled us from the sky .