i can't put my head on

on my shoulder is
a sinkhole
the size of
a small galaxy
it is from
that one time
your head needed
a rest from
the rest of you

i don’t remember you
leaving bodily
liquids, at least not
the kind that
can burn through
skin and
flesh and
bone but
there’s this sinkhole
your face left on
my shoulder

i can’t put my head on
an angle, one that
allows me to
look deep into
myself through
this sinkhole, but
someone risked one
peek into
the abyss in
the middle of me
and she told me
many dark things i
already know, and
then she told me
my heart is
missing

so this is
what it is
all about, i wanted to
ask you, if you had
anything to do
with this. if you
took it, will you
return it, what do you
want in exchange,
where and when; and
i am sorry if you
expected me to
have caught you
in the act, i was too
enamored with
watching your hair
in an affair
with the wind, lapping
at my cheek that day,
receding, surging,
surging, receding,
the softest
tidal waves



2017.feb.23

screw, sonically

you may never guess
the number of times i have
deferred my extermination,
i have lost track,
lost count, myself,
nor have i kept
a tally of the many times
i have evaded deletion,
or consumption by angels,
or by the Silence,
or other extraordinary perils
from every pocket of
the closets of time,
but you,
you would have fallen
to any of them, unless you
have this same thing i do,
in my pants,
this wibbley-wobbley,
this timey-wimey,
pen-like thing,
which we strive to convince everyone
that it’s just a tool meant
to push metal pins
around tiny, finite,
minute
spirals


2017.feb.16