nomenclature part 5.

deficiency

the mirrored face, an
apostrophe.
this, the rotting globe, the marble sky,
symptom.

my eyes swim into this
gaping orifice, the boy’s
mouth.

fragment limbs sun arms around the black.
epidemic boy, your face lets the rain in.

I see the reaches of his words, contoured
into theirs. the boy
looks like a bird and
what are birds in the end but boys with wings?

magnify his scattered hairline. contagion,
the shadow of a pause, scream against the
brick houses, all the clean brick houses,
scream against this silent night of houses.

reckless recluse

break solid light and breathe into my shoulder
another minute because I have
no time for miracles
anymore, no time to obstruct the veins of
my staccato silence and
believe that you won’t leave, kiss me one more
time so I can let the lengths become my strengths again
before you come back with
your still beating promises of love
like suns surrender this to me: just
tell me you could love me even though I know you never did,
I want the days to be enough for me again,
holding your hand like borrowed money.

your rock and roll, your faded eyes
your ripped blue jeans like nets to catch an ocean,
and I would cry on steps of buildings because you
would still run my fingers along your edges and let
your head rest on my arm even though it was never
enough.

but the days burned dim and the nights brighter,
until I could not tell you from
the silence anymore,
you were you are a reckless breed of bird
and when I was alone with you
the suns in your bones were quiet.

paradox, or how to lie efficiently

1.
when there is nothing else to write
and the speaking is through
I think I will paint myself orange
and disappear into the sunset.

a boy once asked me what it was
that I wanted.
I want to know what it is
that I want,
I told him, his question like a too-ripe apricot
when it is hot out.

2.
I once had a secret and
I named it cacophony
but there is nothing loud about
the brave magnitude of stars.

the only sound now is in my fingernails
and your desperate oblivion,
the fragment of a sentence and
the exhaustive vacuum I feel
as I hide under my bed swallowing needles.

3.
I don’t want to want anything,
I finally realize,
but my head is hung low like peeled fruit
and the sun fell into a salt lake
when I wasn’t looking.