Selected Poems
2025
Poetry
Ouroboric
Recesses. Neon cavaliers,
the red evening, bowing before us.
The ribs expanding for our curiosity,
and then receding again towards
the greater temple.
Towers
Beneath the first tower
where they first defined their morals.
or perhaps, beneath the empty sky,
which called our reality out to us,
or maybe that we saw our reality within,
or the loneliness of our singular
perspective conceived the external view.
Underneath the empty, we birthed the
ability to construct our perception into
purity.
So came the towers,
then came prosperity,
divinity, stagnation,
demolition,
restructuring,
pain, excitement,
fevered construction,
illusion, disillusion,
delirium, conviction,
dissolution.
We built the tower,
we fed it our errs,
we did not build solely
with material, but
with immaterial
judgements; We live
in a cavity of
opposed belief.
We live in
opposed belief.
Sketch
Descent of past into the present,
as if time, or its purpose, was
a well catching water. The source,
a larger creator than visible, delivering.
We find ourselves in the conduit,
but it does not serve the purpose
of a conduit, and our collective
is stored at the bottom of an
unseen, unrecorded, unarchived
excavation.
There is no One
who fetches from humanity's bowl.
Proposition
Anticipating conjunction,
Three-body problem.
Chaos of mind fabric;
Undressed for the base primal.
The bull, the sky, and the
arching landscape.
awaiting syzygy.
Bloodletting
When I sleep I am a virgin,
mirror moons for a stomach;
one far side turning inwards
to meet its unknown body.
Arched altar below, tributed for hunt.
I pray for stained rites,
deviation of orbit,
drawn blood to my lips.
Heavenly bodies to the core.
Untethered High Noon
An unflowering from the clouds,
petals falling forward, upward.
Time is a fruit.
The seed is a face.
Suspension of faith,
faith in desire.
Yours is the face of synchronicity;
Mine is the face of dismemberment;
Our faces are one, until they are
born;
In my justification, virtue came
before and after beauty.
In my mind, beauty is purity;
In that truth, composition is
absense.
Mitts
Unreceived hours are ones belonging to memory,
bellowing and burrowed in indistinction.
The spleen of a door is the aching spine of my father.
Restraint mitts are the same shape as our first fleshly lounge.
Collision in your begging,
we are only a series of momentary impulses.
The self falls into the same indistinct formation, the same
lossless organization: missing general placement.
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