I was not born flung open like this— taste my bread my blood my breath broken across the mantle of night like the metal tears of looking back
Heed my song ring the alarm tell it back to your own third person
Have my nights my rage my days listen to my wings slice the air like sky-eyed bats who conquer the unforeseen first.
As rivers flow so should I speak! you should know my ancient tongue! it's unraveled from Kailas from Hood from Tamalpais from Tehachapi & beyond
who else is going to shake the grave from yr mind? I don't believe what this world is coming to.
The forecast is calling for a series of radical processes & you can't stop praising saints you have yet to give eyes to I wouldn't have fled so fast except the cathedral bells are covered in my fingerprints
Holding the Line
tremulant in the fox holes between hemispheres.
refusing to step in the same river twice—
is it the crowd's jeers, or the matador's cape
which drives men to become their shadow?
we who continue to survive what we are capable of—
summer has come & gone like a beetle
in a wheat field. three months sweating
the same sweat. millions of suns
chiding summer's drawn out wrath.
I've been singing the same song
since last April. finding new harmony.
walking around three months
with an ice cube on the tongue.
The Hand that Feeds
candles devour the walls
shadows of what we are
and will be
& tonight this desert is yr witness
yr flowing dreams & nightmares
awake, flowing in the conviction
that you are strong enough to go it alone
the moon shivers—
highways & rail yards
neon wilderness in a field of dust
five minutes to the taco truck
five minutes to the arroyo
forever to live & forgive
& what is done with what is said
lingers like fireflies drenched
in fistfuls of rainfall
and the horizon
steer yr light
of breath feeding