Author: G H

how to retire from ecstatic /
strangle the person who suggests so /
it’s lonely twisting in the middle of the street /
always a pack of matches in the back pocket /
at the ready to toss on the perfect hedge /
or societal forecast for a precise plot of land /

embarrassed eagerly for the evaporating absurdity of it all /
swallowing tongues daily /
knowing the arguments are a mudslide burying the original inhabitants /

watching the cars dissipate along the line drawn /
beyond annual association meetings /
seeing the collapse and fragmentation of our home /
as all things knowing this earth are reclaimed /

in the street, at night, invoke /
what cannot become atoms /
but always arrives alone /
that eternity created daily

seems simple enough /
raise the sun by going to sleep /
it’s a limited guarantee depending on intended use /
that brightness begs for a shadow as invisible ballast /
to find breath, shift a shape slightly or alter colour /
a place of quieted sight allowing the turn /
perhaps daydreaming of murder for a second allowed /
shade separates, pulling away from the day sun /
a brief refusal to be /
where the light is loudest inside

here’s to hoping my stomach is lined with teeth /
very capable of churning up the twisted flaff downed every day /
tiny bursts of long dead material spun out from the repeated wheel /
rolling down the main view of municipality where atoms are divided /
and sampled at the grocery store as a new source of personal energy /
driving families to the perfect parking lot to watch fireworks /
spout from the belly of the holy ghost, whose only passion is to entertain

time to dive back in, neck extended, into the shallow end /
rasping the slick bottom for cracks /
clawing tiles back seeing the release of old air, babbling up /
close in the mouth to savor and break /
releasing at the surface as visible air amongst the common transparent /
promising never to breathe again this generation

the world has been on fire for centuries /
rain is returned to the clouds /
faces are repeated in the high chairs of the nation /
try to die, but not obviously /
the ground has been simmering under pavement for decades /
the peaks of our heads melting slowly for generations /
that increasing measurement between interest and incline /
is filled with roiled air /
drying out shaved green space /
in the city of tomorrows /
small plastic people cemented to their place

the intestines are the purist manifest of love /
still wringing everything long after the expression /
making a tight, dedicated fist of given waste /
reluctant to let go, impacting all that was offered /
contracting a material world, all we bow to /
into a dark diamond offered again to the struggling senses /
a bed and a ceiling available to all for warmed descent

seeing everything again today /
all the drips, flakes, peels, crusts /
lifting up into our thin atmosphere /
death isn’t worming through the ground /
it is as light as last year’s dusted skin /
blinking in the late afternoon sun /
swimming in the air upwards /
towards the nothing expanding above our heads /
death is weightless, without form /
spreading out amongst emptied space /
and pricks of light holding

every way is clear away /
numbers now and over a carry over /
inspiring waste of time /
we aspire to do diligently /
cracking the day made useless /
a subtraction of its parts /
till the less than zero burns /
a brilliant hole in the drywall /
gleeful it should spread /
into the next morning frame /
add or deduct nearly everything /
artefacts of the future already unbearable /
never consume anything on the menu

no rain for weeks and heads still on fire /
blessed is rusty condensation in the storeroom /
tapping on our tongues unfolded for the trip down /
everyone runs in a straight line from combust to combust /
tearing past malachite and mantis, phlox and plum, layered in shade below /
skimming the outline of words by each other’s glare /
that flare sent up days ago has yet to arch down /
it’s pin of flame lost amongst the flashes we fan about /
draining oxygen from every public place

the citizens are waving along the canyon /
its depth is a massive yawn /
at our moments protruding like minor blemishes /
culmination, an unnecessary by-product of fits and hissing /
not the starry explosions of gargantuan gestures /
sweeping whole ideas off the continent /
but an unsteady stream of cooking oil /
we boil ourselves into