DRIFTING There is an emptiness only found amidst three hours of sleep, silence beyond the stream — bodily facts become silhouetted through the submerged communication cables locating point to counterpoint. You red faced and wailing with the lost weight in the ossified language habits adopted through reliction and withdrawal. Disproportionately leaning on the meaning reviled beyond a measured decorum in tableware and speech; held aloft as something irrationally obtained but not yet accommodated for as we discover depth in the chart now used as guide. Continuous is the defined condition immaterial to sleep yet holding firm in the currents of reference and gravitation.
AFTER SONATA Home is something we name but can never feel as the word discarnate even in definition leads to a recitation within ourselves. The first time we fucked it was mid afternoon with the blinds wide open, neither caring atop the ripped sheets which we tore further, with a belief in provincials regarding who could still be watching— but that negation is all yours. Hell or heaven both, misery ends in a modernist position outside of what we were taught on Sundays with a cricked flower and a cracked window that still persists—protective ultimately while I can’t be ahhh no longer. The spiritual was internal as strawberries became our emancipation— deference still maintaining; the seeds spilling out never losing their juicy stauros. Here I lie, sweating like August with you leaning over my porch railing as I ride off on my bike looking for a reprieve; a breath of that subtle Arizona air I’ve heard so much about and wish to lose you so much further in.