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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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