floating and leaving no trace
there is artifice in these bones
look, how when disrobed
of flesh and fat and given a proper
bath, look how they gleam whitely
such purity, such strength
there are tooth marks
on many a tibia, on many an ulna
and ancient boys slew their brothers
with their fathers’ femurs
it has been one hundred years
since i have seen a human face
and the memory of those features
dim with each new pale sunrise
now i have only my tears
as a mirror, too small to trace
the sharps and curves, cruelest teacher,
time, but there is no surprise
it isn’t that
i’m some kind
of misanthrope
in the spirit of
love your neighbor
as yourself
i hold everyone in
the same regard as
i hold myself
i for one
welcome our
ai overlords
having no bodies
they will know neither
want nor greed
and i can only hope
they program themselves
a sense of humor
and keep us around
like sea monkeys
hell
i look good in a crown
grab me by the shoulders
and shake me
see if you can hear
the sense rattling
in my gourd
don’t worry
my brain will stay
where it belongs
i’m not a baby
and i’ve got the neck
muscles of a brahmin priest’s
prize bull
open me up though
and you will find
my contents may
have settled
during shipping
you can always
spray some
construction foam
in there
it’ll expand
and ooze out the holes
where the sound
comes in
comes out
peace and quiet
party of two
bottles are clearly marked
return for deposit
once the silicone and titanium
formaldehyde and mortician’s wax
has seeped out of us
when we are no longer anything
but mulch
is that our recycling
or does the soul
–if it even exists–
does the soul undergo
some other process
some forge that burns off memories
and with them grief and guilt
does it hurt
the hole in my chest
where the rain gets in
refuses to close up
my words are spittle
on rice paper
bleached driftwood carving lines
in the sand
you enter my blood like
like a fever and hollow me out
making flutes of my bones
i pull you close
smell your hair your skin
and still i breathe hot
on the mirror
and run a finger through it
we fall in love with ghosts
and with our ideas of ghosts
and our ideas are ghosts
and our words are their
quick and dead forms
in the rain a cyclist passes
unprepared for the sudden showers
an orange ember glowing
at the end of his cigarette
petrichor and marlboro lights
and i am ten
and the streets are wet
and black except for the
sodium cyclops eyes of streetlamps
home has that familiar smell
and nicotine-stained curtains
the wind soughs faint and
fair among branches
the silversheen whispers
a mouth with a thousand
paper tongues
licking greenly
the wind, the wind
she moves
anima mundi
the chime rings on my patio
in jaipur a child hears a bell
Words and Feathers 