the lake my parents live on
looks like the accumulation
of their neighbors dip spit.
a moat surrounding John Deere
tractors, pickup trucks,
lawn signs that read “Thank You Jesus”.
sewage run off carrying
McDonald’s bags and NRA bumper stickers.
small wooded islands are interspaced
with the sounds of frogs and Fox News
playing on televisions.
devout naysayers huddle on boats,
sharing stories of one-
sided celebrations with right-
if you pray hard enough, drowning
victims will be saved and fish will be caught.
bread will be broken
with those who float
above the deep subaqueous silence.
love is the reverberation
of a muted song,
spinning but unspun in a spool.
left over images on the reel, woven
pasts and recycled words
all interconnected into
a massive structure of rewinding time.
you drag it through the street
and beg others to
watch, listen, or feel.
if your bartering isn’t accepted,
another empty echo is hoarded.
the devouring forms of childhood
lay within a transmuted cloud formation
backstabbed by light beaming brushstrokes
all trickling down into a pool of commonalities
awaiting a future
where feverish feelings bubble up into
times on the precipice of being cherished
Chryste says we are our own planets
inside of a dive bar,
pulling men into our gravitational fields.
but I feel like an astronaut,
invisibly free falling
on the fringes of every celestial body.
I lock eyes with a trail of comets,
ensorcell a protostar,
blush in the presence of a red giant.
in the slow descent,
my beer boils,
forming tiny crystals
that encircle my head.
cosmic rays permanently toxify my body
through string lights and neon signs.
I am illumined
or maybe I’m drunk.
some mornings you wake me with a call
to arms, or a crawl as if in deep trenches
perhaps just your color wakes me,
as it twists into my dreams
becoming my dreams, pulling
the blackness from behind my eyelids
into the bed, taking shape and texture
you are a soft fiddle head fern
that runs through the wind,
imitating an ash-throated flycatcher
your forgiveness comforts me
and wakes me at night
if we meet and I seem mute,
it is because I am trapped
beneath crashing waves, in a rip tide
that swimming techniques can’t release me from
a pearl has been stuck in my throat since birth
creamy light rarely reflected
against my tongue, in quiet spaces
a shore is a gift unknown to me
but if ever I am graced with it’s broken landscape
I am pounded by dust devils
of shell and seaweed
like the sulking pier,
releasing barnacle ridden scripts
into shark infested waters
inviting a sunfish to take my place
for a sacrificial rite
moored for nights under moonlight
folding my entire being into
the natural order of a seascape silhouette
may hope follow the wake
through estuaries curtailing what proceeded
our linguistic bobbing
that first caused this muddy mess
ahead, in the dunes
a flock of gulls lifts the arching sunlight
in a dance of the daytime
idling on an asphalt river,
I saw what first appeared
to be rows of vehicles, yellow
from sunlit nurturing.
I was resting in a field of sunflowers, metallic
in procession with the wind
blinking, right or left
transmitting their desires to those around them.
how caring of those star-imitating blooms
to care about my safety
as I started to roll forward.
in warmer times we are
overwhelmingly minced up
into large rolling
dew drops gliding
over asphalt and screeching
to a halt with metal
bones and rubber
senses pounding our metal feelings through
glass or air that was once glass until it fell
away from the rusted skin
buried deep inside of a secret
compartment with an unknown depth
please open my hood
the light is on again
quixotic puddle, a surrounding circled
by sandy ringlets of time under tree trunks
bearing desire, beneath Earthly happenings
below fears each a different shade of brown.
awaiting the hands of the archaeologist
who lives in Earthly happenings but digs
deeper than the laborers of nearby towns
and fills pales with rocky memories to look through later
just to find the round forming tangible time,
which culminates in the rolling stones they release
from their wrinkled fingers and soft brain tissue
as it thinks of what is later
as an idea
through each individual estuary laden sphere of
circled time wheeling life creating characteristic.