Do trimmer blades Understand “patches?” Do hairs scream As they are beheaded? Or do they sing to the Buzz of these steel bees? Do fingers listen To the mane’s choir? Will this choir bless your fingers With their voices at all? Do you wish there were fewer Voices, fewer ensembles?
Was a man who follows trails of vapor whispers, interprets these ghostly compasses, reads smoke and mirrors, prefers the pitter-patter of blurry rain, sways to the rhythm of stumbling drums, rubs prescription lamps, wishes upon Upjohn genies to forget; is a man who remembers only blotted smiles in swaths of
There are men who wield God-given five-digit weapons, with unparalleled accuracy. Hip-fired hollow-points or Full-metal iron-sight finger-fired points. The shots always land. They rain blame in place of bullets, phantom pains in armor-piercing guilt, Magazines in the wrists, Foregrips in the elbows, Friend or foe, we are all painted in
Pixels versus pupils pin a hunchback tapestry to my posters. Rainbow diodes distract us monsters from people, flashing lights are the only sign of life in this room. Zombie wrists wrap keyboard scalps, septic hands feeding on and off my brain. Lines of code, coke cans, and lines of coke
Like the first autumn breeze,warm and wet from summer’s kissblowing through my heartstringsbreathing melodies like chimesyou came,effortlessly. Like green leaves, relaxinginto yellows and oranges and brownsdrifting from the safety of their fortresses,relief from the rhythm of humdrumyou found me,effortlessly. Like thanksgiving, we gathered at tablesTo celebrate our miracles: each other,cooked