a ringing sense of disharmony wakes me every time i dream
a warble in the air
like the throat of God clearing itself before reciting something cruel
the struggle old and flaccid
so 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 hard not to bleed in public and ignored until they're useful
which is never

isn't the soil tired of the plant?

i wake like the sudden echo of a death 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
like a pilgrim 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
rage desire the sweetness we spat out
bricks and bricks build walls
walls and walls build homes
a perplexing alchemy
it’s myth colored sacred grotesque
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?