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i.
in the hand-spun
valleys of the geodes
in the curves of
my ear there
is a flood: sounds
drown and that
water turns
red. i
blink and
bleed, trap
the dirt
between my nails
and the slick skin
beneath.
and this
is no metaphor:
the music truly
misses me, the static
of all symphony
so gets to me, and
god am i
unclean.

i feel this whole lake
leak: my ramblings
roil and reek and bleakly
burst, and i am
ready for the worst
of this sore storm,
for i am worn. and
the hollow halls of
this raw river
are much too small
for me, and i am
itching, picking, ripping
for relief. when
the flakes of mud
detach and float like
crumpled crumbling leaves
i breathe, oh god, i
breathe. and here
i chip away the hours that
already fade, bear down
and pray the clutching
claws of hunger go away;

i look medusa
straight in the eye
and hope to heaven
i will never move
my leaden limbs
again.

ii.
oh, stiff i write
this odyssey, and something
bursts and the
verse just pours
from me. this
is the most beautiful
thing this pen
will ever write
despite the truth
that it’s held tight
by such ugly hands:
i fear
that i’m
a thief,
afraid of the
little hole in
the ceiling where i
feel someone else’s
gaze burn through
the cap of my own
skull -
god damn,
i dully
waste
away.

(well, this is what we
call a limbo,
hence the steady
whirring
of the screen. and the
words surge in
my wrists and
beat against my tongue
but i think that i am
empty, and i hope
this is a dream.)

iii.
good lord,
there's a heartbeat
in my head.