You will ask: what are the horrors of patriotism?
I watched as blood ran down the loosely lined streets—soft billows of hate still rising
each staking their claim, each proclaiming their repugnant holiness, sinew stuck between their teeth
how quaint, your holy city, filled with the corpses of each other, each the others enemy
how endearing & sweet, I can smell the refuse of Gehenna burning, the valley churning as you pillage for another body to burn
how holy. how holy.
what is holier than all the holy wars. what is more joyous than to wrap our gifts in guts—all pounded out & tenderized, a small slip of vein bowed up around the bomb.
Oh, how long is this war.
How often I’ve felt the bones beneath me, crunching, giving way to another layer of death.
Patriotism & religion. They sour my soul. They mark themselves as unholy despite their blood-lust claims.
Only the northerners understand the agony of 2pm dusk as winter robs us of our last ounces of strength…
there is strange deep pain attached to this encompassing blackness
4:15 sunsets & dark dreams
quiet aches & itches
I am a cold gathering of flesh around
this warmth of mistiness & spirit
a soul, lost in the depths of all this
unprovoked memory—holding you here against the balm of me
This really is my favourite band most days…they just appeal to the way I feel inside, both summer & winter & remind me of California’s rugged side.
fragility—this faint blueness that rivers up the wrists
vulnerable & powerful, the same
that tenderness, that quaint, that faint of pulse & flutters that find themselves
what is the rate, the force, the variation?
what is your exquisite triviality?
—the forest thick, the wilderness screaming I wander this sweet portage ever so quietly
In those shadows that close down
Winter’s pithy greyness
Slipping around the other round
All things consumed & rising—
The skeleton & the young babe
Eyes can’t focus in the fog
& we’re not soul nor whole anymore
We squirm in little circles
Our hips pinned to
The ice & the ground
Come back with life glasped between
Fade up into the blues of my memory
Of summer & ache & joy—Joy being the most resplendent ache.
Surface. Pull the breath from the air
Slip ’round the other round.
…and there it was
The day of the dead, pretty bold & pretty blue
And all they thought was thoughts of you
Your tussled hair, your broken speech
Your broken heart, when you would attempt to speak
Wandering in the broken blue, the memories we flooded forth
Of you, of you.
We gathered close to feel each tear, this one huddled to the other near
We let trickle to the long long fall, the whisper of the moments each recall
So wave now, that solemn farewell,
God knows this is the only hell
To live here, without the breath of you
Against my chest. An eternity it feels, without you.
Strikes at the bones.
Breaks wide with a wetness, heart bleeding to lung
Scatters the mind & fuses to the spine
Comes tiptoeing up beside the bed each night
Echoes through the waves of blinding snow
Becomes everything except, a home
Eats away at the little veins that run up our necks
Rips them from us
Grates away the nerves & the sinews
Is a full grave, both in our chest & in the ground
It comes back around
Makes us weep. Makes us drown.
how always, this wind, howling
down the chimney fuels
it is both a wildness & something
so well known