movement out

after ways have parted like the wings
of a dying fly
fanning
lost dolls in our blankets
who can't say a word,
fresh starts that feel familiar--
only bodies drying out on lines
guided from corner to corner of
a cold promenade--
a funeral process,
new makeshift make-believes moving
determinedly toward a magical ending.

sorry, we don't do "art"

disgrace

i have no use for a new machismo--
even packaged in paint and fishnet lace--
paradigmatically bound
and mesmerized, singing the refrain
in cheerstarved monotony.
ive seen women
and theyre not you--
no pain transcends your vision
but the prescription of self-satisfaction.
another victim of triumphalist imagery
joins the ranks of manicured wolves
marching lockstep to the
famous breeder's beat

inhale

i spend
afternoons in the void,
head dressed down in metaphorical
maps-- charting old sentiments in
new beginnings
and the slow fold of
tired eyes

caw-caw

all old skin has
years listed in it
and knows itself by
a dozen shifting names--
remnants of membership
in esoteric collectives--
stretched out in years
and rendered the same

qualm

i can sing the night's
calm diatribe
sweeping embraces into its
mildewed eyes
common touch prescribed by
embossed capsules smiling
new sentences in
examination
mentioned in brief
collides by subway stations
burned out and faded
forgotten pages

apology--
isn't after all the ever afters whispered mentioned something
neat about my staying here to see it all?
mention me to jesus please
i havent seen another face since i saw credits
in 3D
rolling names of mated hearts
dressed in pearls and sponsored clothes
crawling back to joyous notes
they've gridded in their memories--

media remade love
and me,
reprojected reality
in membership manipulate
reanimate the fantasy