I.

a lonely bird asked me if it’s over

is it over. is it over

will   the   seat   of   our  betrayals   rise   up   and  punch   us?
uppercut, jab,  loosen  the  bowels  of  our  anger  into  poem

will we lose our hold on our children, our mothers, our mortgages

 

II.

sprawl  as  though  you   are   teeming  with  the ambulatory
instinct   of   a   centipede.   would  that  we could escape our
fate by running in a zig zag too

 

III.

how long until men stop making homes in the skin of other men

lycra, like raw, lick law. see it’s a game

how long will they feed their children with their own
image, with someone else’s breast, with someone’s
something isn’t right

like the moment you get too high, and your mind searches for fear

a pulse beats into a heart as the barnacle
waits for wave

 

IV.

I listen to a loud and violent conversation betweenneighbors   and   think,   it  couldn’t   be   time   for  us to die.
we’ve just begun making art. exciting memory particleson   the   bed   of   the   ocean,    embracing   the   caterpillar’s
fuzziness as a conduit into infinity, no transmogrifying    needed    as    distraction,   no     sustained
thoughts about self, no worrisome headache from flyingoff    the    sad    pills    too   fast.   alright,   I   mean   me.  I’ve
just started. at the beginning of this infinitesimal roar is a song in a clamor of minors.

V.

jagged the harp into singing, gentle the feet of yourelephant  and  we’ll   hold   each  other’s  tails if  only,  if only
to find a way to our forebears’ graves so we can mournproperly.

It couldn’t be we’re dying, we’re dead, we’re losing, we’ve lost. It couldn’t be.

I’m saying, I’m saying.