a ringing sense of disharmony wakes me
every time i dream
not noise, exactly, but a warble in the air
like the throat of God clearing itself
before reciting something cruel
the struggle old and flaccid
superficial and fascinating
it restricts growth
like watching gold peel off a holy statue
to suddenly reveal bone underneath
you want to turn away but you
stare until you become the peeling
our hearts grow like cacti
bristled unspectacular uncelebrated
trying not to bleed in public
ignored until they're useful
which is never

isn't the soil tired of the plant?

i wake like sudden death
not a scream
just an echo left behind
everything I was and will be
dangling on that exact moment between
sleep and wakefulness
i return to this place
over and over and over again
a pilgrimage to the question
that never answers back

isn't the sea tired of the sand?

the flex inside your bones is slimy
I can form sculptures out of it
show you how my demons look like
build you castles
not for the god
but for the parts of ourselves we keep under glass
rage desire the sweetness we spat out
because it felt too much like need
bricks and bricks build walls
walls and walls build homes
a perplexing alchemy
it’s myth colored sacred grotesque
language becomes silence
what else is a home but a lie
we keep calling shelter

isn't the clay tired of the fire?

loving you now is like having
a wedding between the war
birthing a baby while an apocalypse
the chances are bleak
but we marry anyway
we challenge the end
demand for an implicit proof of
it's ability to end us
we ask the war to prove
it can interrupt us
we ask death if
it knows our names yet
demand the war to slaughter if it can

-isn't the gun tired of the bullet?