The moment you flit by my ear, my strings are severed, I droop like a marionette— I remember I know nothing.

I have this sensation when remembering the poignant noteworthy moments, Lovers, the Dead, crimes—

Mojave Desert crushed cars stacked six, seven, ten tall. From the junkyard juts a billboard:

It’s good here Decapitate me here This moment perfect astounding unknowing Faith in God not necessary

At a certain point in your ordeal, it isn’t your ordeal that bothers… It is the fact that everything is… That’s what really bothers you. Because what happened is not OK,

In your gut is an empire— Spells, tug of war, Holy Days, ascent, decline.

Every once in a while, when my bunkmates are asleep (or at least I hope they are), and the jingle of the keys fades to the end of the hall,

To be a ghost is to always be aghast— To not know which direction is the future or the past.

It occurs to me now that no one hears my song. Still young, I am discarded. I don’t anticipate being surprised at my aloneness in old age.

In the most lovely of lands, before a backdrop of mountains and palms, there hangs a pall— All my Loves

This day, there is no ONE to beat your fist… No party, no tyrant, not even a faction—

Think you’re doing something? Thing you’ve got some power? You can walk on coals, swallow poison and live, but who is at the helm

Pretend like your hell is the new normal. Now the space is calm, and poignant, and telling.

There is a most worthy woman, the upper steward of the manor, Obermeyer of Holy Terra, house cute, smokestack simmering,