Reflective

There is subjectivity in the way we pronounce things,

in the past tense my mouth was on fire, dripping.

Thick plastic bags I flip through the props of an optometrist.

Today I am no more, there is no way out of this.

 

In the past tense my mouth was on fire,

My lips pierced in the middle looking down a reflective surface.

Today I am no more, there is no way out of this,

I my eyes on the sun that used to exist.

 

My lips pierced in the middle looking down a reflective surface,

They bursted like butterflies to the wind blowing.

I my eyes on the sun that used to exist.

Under the stars soft reviving my eyes were stark naked.

 

They bursted like butterflies to the wind blowing,

Thick plastic bags I flip through the props of an optometrist.

Under the stars soft reviving my eyes were stark naked,

Eyes bad and bubbly looking down my dreams a reflective surface.

Satan’s Daughter

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My brother with the brows of a pale fire

My brother with lips the color of jaundice

My brother with black failing legs

Legs broad and floundering like stranded white fishes.

My brother with the lids of a desperate summer

With fingernails the shape of guitar strings

With nine fingers born out of sine waves and the other

saved for amputation.

 

My brother who is a clown

My brother who slaughters with his chin

My brother who chants the chants of Satan

whose mouth reeks of salmon and phenylalanine

with impunity.

 

My alien brother whose eyes differ by nondisjunction and whose

teeth fluctuate to temperature rising.

 

My brother of cancerous skin and glass-hearts.

My brother of lightning upon lighting in the middle of a black subcutaneous rain.

My brother the only hermaphrodite daughter of his many Fathers’.

 

the way we drink it

The first time we drank it

the incense cut our throats raw, diffused

up a concentration gradient of

sawdust & gaseous disease as she

said to me, tongue purple & jiggling:

“Under the dying sun our faces were

a shade of iron comparable to rain.”

She wrapped her little finger around

mine that were elongated by

the illusion that we engulfed

between lunch breaks & our upper lips.

She touched it with her tongue, gave birth to it

brooding beneath pale eyes & black

warring teeth. They disagreed often

but were loyal to her heart.

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Outlanders

This is what i think about

palpitating under 2 am peace and steady cement:

Between the newspaper office

and home by a ceremonial mountain

is a place called summer; our skin liquifies

every time we trespass in floral ties and birth certificates

umbrella-blessed against harsh winds or sunshine.

we have a way of protecting ourselves,

dematerializing the way stars do against nights of neon and insomnia

stars fading like dreams of outlanders

severed, misplaced, lost to the winds of an oceanic summer—

and we, glassy-eyed and lovestruck

with sick humor and ceremony, lose our sleep

by the hooks of our noses.

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