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THE FLAT
LANDS
A collection
of poems that function
as the ground work for
Gardens of Grief.
2019
Two:
In All Directions
Surrender is sweet.
Heavy in iron
and salted.
Similar to diluted blood
but, thickened with crushed lavender.
No taste of mint.
Hints of soured memories
and the ones laced with sun.
It sinks into the caverns,
sculpted in the gut.
It lives in the seams,
some breaking some coming together.
Can you rise and fall at once?
Expand while collapsing?
Implode while building fortresses?
Soul Tied Words
Dangerous sewing.
Dangerous offerings.
Dangerous altars,
overrun with ransacked discs.
Gold plates trimmed with floral ornaments and disruptions made visible by pressed finger prints.
/-----
I have been ridin the belief that chunks of me have grown in other beings..
Been seeing reflections of pain and suckling on satin wrapped tips soaked in salt.
Been thinking of all the gatherings of feeders,
collectin minerals that were gifted by small springs, that forged through caves and climbed up lime walls.
We carved out roles
and dug tunnels for exchange.
A heavy lift of hollowed agreements, with hidden tendencies to slide
and pile
and break.
/-----
I took more than what was promised.
I know not of the eroding but, know it intimately.
Know nothing of intimacy, yet I scavenge from the bottom.
The second Sunday
and third Sunday
and every Sunday to come,
was met by celebration.
We ate the flesh of our fellows
inflicted sonic pain,
patched what we could,
and repelled,
as if awaking from
a crime of passion.
/-----
Seen love.
Saw it given back,
fill the air and lay arrest
on top of the last of weekly rations.
Heard love rupture.
Observed bodies fracture
as they pushed, pulled apart, and put together shared horrors.
Stole while askin for it.
We magnified atoms until they bent to the will of our shadows.
︎︎︎One: Buried
Pinned Collar Bones
Cheeks tucked,
Puckered Lips,
God, as I know them,
they are breathin.
It stopped all flowing but,
channels have become undefined.
Scars left, from dug up earth, are flooded and now one fluid territory.
On the verge of bubbling,
it lifts self.
Flips flesh on its backside,
and reigns in the flux
but, catches no rhythm.
Within my surrender,
I bathe in rubble and stale ash. Embrace what is propagated cruelty
as a sign of compassion,
from the eyes that catch everything and archive unrest, as if coal for the burning.
Still and fragile.
If I stare too long
the ripples will wash,
will capsize and siege,
this moment of steady.
Stagnation activated
a sweep of dioxide, eclipsing what we cannot lay down but must be buried.
Eroding what our fist cannot manage to bust through.
Still and steady are the eruptions.
Head down buried in my vest. Supported knees and clenched knuckles.
A continuum of positions,
that weep where my voice cannot amplify grief.
Somethings steerin.
Blue lips signal,
a call to be buried,
and consumed.
Covered by death
and the life it brings
It can be captured in the vibrato, cords that shake in unison. A grand stretching of history.
A manifestation of sound
that triggers an opening.
All of a sudden prophecies are shifted.
I am strung up high.
Higher.
Levitation has taken form.
An intersection of warfare.
An equipping of unseen veils.
Through subtle movement and lingering thoughts, hollowed sighs and productions of death.
No more breath,
god they are breathin.