Last updated: 11 hours ago
1.
heaven is a knife
carved into the hull of the sinking slave ship
a wave that breaks across the bow and rocks that cradle toward adenosine paradise
and in the final lucid thought of a stone-eyed captain—a sliver of light shining
between two eternities—he speaks from a sermon written in the sand:
“ephemera om; the story goes on”
2.
stars divide and arc the pitch
a locust ascends its living skin and the prairies hollows
the coyotes scream, dizzy from fumes
while tics crawl beneath my skin
a blue light from your phone separates the cratered skin
and in a chiaroscuro gradient, blends your face with the sky above
my vision dims from across the grass
I only see what I want
everything stitched together but never touching
3.
the color-corrected hue of a pockmarked faced
bends to compute a pixelated thought
and beneath that silence the blue hum of a backlit LED
echoes into an empty room and reflects your face
counting stars in a night with no sky
the water breaks and I am born again
on the rocks and alone
the coarse moan of a child praying to be unborn
is lulled back to silence by the hum of a precise god
high in the computer tower
and in that slumber
the pimpled mountain ascends and empty heaven
while the studio audience pleads for a better life
the earth shifts and I am new
wrapped in plastic waiting to be sold
<br>
heaven is a knife
carved into the hull of the sinking slave ship
a wave that breaks across the bow and rocks that cradle toward adenosine paradise
and in the final lucid thought of a stone-eyed captain—a sliver of light shining
between two eternities—he speaks from a sermon written in the sand:
“ephemera om; the story goes on”
2.
stars divide and arc the pitch
a locust ascends its living skin and the prairies hollows
the coyotes scream, dizzy from fumes
while tics crawl beneath my skin
a blue light from your phone separates the cratered skin
and in a chiaroscuro gradient, blends your face with the sky above
my vision dims from across the grass
I only see what I want
everything stitched together but never touching
3.
the color-corrected hue of a pockmarked faced
bends to compute a pixelated thought
and beneath that silence the blue hum of a backlit LED
echoes into an empty room and reflects your face
counting stars in a night with no sky
the water breaks and I am born again
on the rocks and alone
the coarse moan of a child praying to be unborn
is lulled back to silence by the hum of a precise god
high in the computer tower
and in that slumber
the pimpled mountain ascends and empty heaven
while the studio audience pleads for a better life
the earth shifts and I am new
wrapped in plastic waiting to be sold
<br>
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