I watch my hands recede and ask myself
if I’m dreaming
before the balloons can carry them
all the way to Saturn,
I clap them to my ears to block out
my own howls
(it’s baying, I’m baying)
they are too big and clumsy and
full of holes
and now these receivers on my head
listen to my voice
and my murmurs are full of static
I can only decode if I yell
but I want to stop yelling
I want to whisper joyously
through clenched teeth
while I bend over and present my back,
allowing my soul to be borne.

meteor showers shoot through
the insides of my eyelids
I could make wishes every day
if I wanted

sparkling, flesh colored
wishes

there’s a whole universe in here
it can get lonely
floating through space

listen; listen!
nothing.

At night, I close my eyes
and pretend the sun
is searing through

sunset, the sky is pink
veins are clouds
burst -

an aneurysm or a storm.

Can you catch your own shining tail?
stars and wishes and dreams and -
and all that -
can burn.

I get stuck sitting
at a window
with the curtains drawn

I catch glimpses and gain shadows
I stretch my synapses
to touch dead air.

bobbysconscience asked: Hey there, thanks so much for the follow :) I love your blog and poetry, I feel deprived of not following you earlier. That piece about your grandmother is absolutely beautiful.
I'll be around, and again, thank you,
Bobby

Ah, sir. It was I who was deprived. :-) Many thanks, and I look forward to your entries on my dash.

I’ve got these - headlights.
I’d like you to get caught in them—
it might leave me enough time
to jump out and strip you
of your antlers.
If I leave you naked and crying
on the side of the road,
remember that it could be worse.
If I fashion your lost manhood
into a jaunty bit of headgear
and wear it out to the bar,
tap it, wink and smile at your friends
while your jaw slackens, well—
what is there to do?
They fit me, after all.
Now I’m the cock of the walk.
The BMOC.
Hey chief. Hey buddy. Hey guy.
Not all endings are happy ones.
I don’t even take them off to sleep anymore—
the lush brown velvet is so becoming.
I fall asleep stroking it and thinking of you.
I wake up stroking it and thinking of you.
Your new deficit must be troubling
in the mirror.
Do you touch your bandaged stumps
and cry, I wonder?
So sad, so sad.
If you feel vengeance boiling up in your throat,
choke it down.
Remember, you were asking for it.
Your wide wet eyes said please—
the way you walked, the way you
didn’t run;
Oh my poor, sweet dear—
not all endings can be happy ones.
Buck up.

6:00AM, class in a few hours? It’s cool, I can sleep after I graduate.