Bos of pictures

You made up a box of pictures

You made them up for me

Whether I was worthy, willing, wanting

You drew them tenderly

And I have nothing else to give

And I had nothing left to say

From the moment moving, moaning, making

And I was nothing, given away

To mistresses woven like walls

To manhandlers who can only berate

While you were waiting, wondering, wanting 

To draw me through my given fate

And draw me through till I was made

And draw me through with lines and patterns

Which no matter how I use them now

Are just a box of pictures 

And I'm not a hero 

And I'm not a villain

I'm just tatters

How's all that space

winds on the flowers
pacing across axeblade petals
Poisoned curves
The metal stretch
of an indecisive creature
falling into it's own clouds

When so many strides
imagine themselves
into nothing

When so many straights
remind me of something
the sun like a runny egg
the rock like a broken plate

When the rockets all know
where heaven meant to be

Now up and up and up
Now racing spinning
Holding it all
In the very lack of matter
The dropoff of those things
That never mattered
It doesn't matter
flowers in her hair
The air
It's crisp
fit to leave the surface of the earth
Just right
to take distance
all I need is lift

Drivers on a storm

Boatswain
Blowing on his own chain
Rubbed red hot against his own skin
Pinging to him
In a language he no longer remembers
a language without halt or name
He catches some chatter in a drift
He carries the glide of the ship
Off along the thunderheads

Giving up on giving up

I took an evening

A book of inquiry

Delectable

A respiry 

And floated over nausea 

Spit from meditation

Pushing out the crusts

And last traces

Of sensation

Set them all to running

Running to my skin

Bleeding through 

What's left of my questions

Into a bowl 

Of sanguine elation

I am safe 

To vomit every last word

Every last organ

Every lasting pin

Placing me in space And time