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Spiderweb courage and cactus roots

Here is a mouth marble too large for me to choke on any longer, written to the tune of swiftwater spillways in a rainstorm of spiderweb courage:

The summer we raced frozen boots up glacier scars, the night slept a precarious three inches between the tiptoe of my neck and the whisper of your mouth as we tried to dream our way out of a fireworks sideshow, and
A week later I lay on the floor spinning Evans’ sermon to peace and found black anemones sprouting from my hair.
Maybe I’ve never been gritstone enough for your darkened alley hallmark cards, perhaps
Not fractured the same at lung level to wear the right hieroglyphs under my soft sleeves.
But, listen: my chaos don’t burn like yours but no one wears a belt simply for looks, get me?
When the tooth fairy started pinching pennies, I buried patience with the dog under the raspberries and turned culdesacs into stamp books,
Traded basement bars for Buddhist monks and broken-down busses.
The truth is,
I’m pretty good at running but I’m far better at believing in quantum somersaults and interplanetary beach combing.
You merely have to ask.
For the love of all that is holy,
One that I am yet afraid to admit to myself,
I want (you)
to stop
Running.
I want to bury my mothwings in your bourbon voice
Press teeth to the honey of your cats eye mouth.
Stick lemon lime dots in your ears so all you’ll hear is my doorstep in your eyes saying “I am the lantern,
look for me to go home”
And I know (god, I know) the mud pit needs raking and
street signs are knife fights and
Highway crosses can go to hell
And that time is a paint-by-number pillow box whose crayons will ever so gently go missing with use.
But, listen.
There is never enough time
we are never enough time
And time is never more than a stupid lie about two drops of water on either side of mans folly.
But I promise you that a ribcage can hold more than a rattlesnake
and that
Eventually we will all be reborn.
You and I, we are nothing if we ain’t fighters and
I’ve seen you bleed
So let’s try, to
Sow cactus roots in tidal flats and
Throw a tsunami into a cereal bowl of lucky charms
Because “Every day is one day less”.
If the answer is no
I’ll be fine
It’ll all be fine.
We’ll meet at the bar
And toast tequila to the ghost of my father’s mother
(The angel of unrequited wishbones)
This is all her fault anyway.
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Narwhals, II.

You keep talking
about a place I’m supposed to
get excited for,
to save my pennies for,
should be looking forward to
all the comfort there, with its exquisite debts and hard-earned luxuries like
couches, which I suppose are nice but

Have you ever read
the lichen on a sheet of
granite with your fingertips,
searched its syntax for
a history,
an origin to the tangle of electricity-addled neurons that got you here

—dancing, terrified, upon a
batholithic monument to futility;

where you come to know gravity
in the verses you sing
under your breath
in an attempt to keep from falling,
in a lingua terra
we cannot write
can only feel, like
Being rained on while swimming or
the silence before a crash?
This is where my soul goes
while you’re talking about couches;
Where it smells like ferns and cinnamon, and
the story is told without words.
I keep waiting for you
to walk up out of the trees, smiling
Yeah, you.
Please don’t tell me you’ve seen enough of the stars or
That feather pillows are better;
I got all the maps laid out.
We got a million grass-covered hills to lie on and
argue about constellations
until the moon is high enough
to start climbing.
Do you remember what it felt like—
the first time you struck flint to steel
and made fire?

I’ll be in the car.

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Thanks-giving.

December, Diciembre
turned the page with a storm
battering windows in the night.
But in it I saw the
Moonlight framed in cedar
monoliths,
Laughter rising above our heads like the steam circling
upward into the cedar boughs;
words of love hope fear worry reflection connection,
building and weaving
a web stronger than our words
and arms,
the silent lake
standing witness
to our communion and our melancholies,
Blues poems written into the pages we hold folded at our chests
like origami birds
while beaming songs
into each others’ lungs.
And all the atoms in our bodies
were born in the hearts of
dying white dwarf stars,
And we feel that;
We feel it all.

And we know the false arch may be as much
as most of us can expect in this life,
but we don’t want
to be ‘the most of us.’
We refuse, we cant
fathom that.
Only the very lucky
discover the keystone, and we are looking and looking and waiting
and singing our souls into the whirlwind.
We are the lucky,
We will it to be so.
And in the mean time
We prop each other up, though not as false arches—
but like these black branches holding up the moonlight,
Framing its stubborn courage as it
Spills light all over the darkness.