The issues – and there are many –
start like this:
The universe is a fishbowl
in a science classroom full
of high school freshmen.
Eyes that we do not understand to be eyes
gaze in at us
curious and unflinching –
each space between a blink lasting a millennia.
When they look in
all they see are glass girls in glass cages
wrapped in the dreams
that a spider’s silk leaves behind.
They see candlewax tears
dripping down dark,
bloodstained faces leaving tracks
like breadcrumbs behind to find
their way home
permanently. Like the
injustices that bore them from their loins
they will not dissolve.
There is no maple sugar here
to soothe tired taste buds –
folded inside other contradictions.
Myths that are lietruthlie
that floating boys swallow down
in shot glasses as soon as
their feet touch land again.
Deploy is a dirty word.
Here we all are, part of one great big atom bomb
waiting to be detonated.
We’d leave, but the earth has married us,
and our wedding rings are shackles
keeping us prisoners
under the guise of being in love
with the way we move against her
when we fuck
or how our eyes sparkle in the sunlight, or how
our voices can be so small in the middle of the night.
They see our struggle.
Watch us strain against handcuffs and handguns
fighting wars amongst ourselves
for one reason, and one reason only:
The universe make a lot of noise
to prove to itself that it really exists.
Outside of the fishbowl
they’ve learned to put their
heartbeats on pause
and hush the rustling language of air
through their lungs and
they think that we should call them gods for this.
They are sepia flavored photographs
letting immortality render
their alveoli stiff and
they think we should call them gods for this.
The only prayers I will say
belong to drag racers
speeding down 88 miles of bookshelf
in the New York Public Library.
I’m a glutton for some goddamn
I’ve got a snakeskin heart
and with every beat it sheds.
The skins of past lovers lay littered
around the whale bone floor of my closet and
they should call me a god for this.