You Are Everyone

A trigger finger twitch, a hitch in the cross-fire, belief in blood and borderlands, a wandering shell of human. (my work is simply a blend of experience that falls away when I type. I do not intend what I write. My writing is a result of the past. As a result of the past, it is just that. Passed.)

Truly beautiful are those who are not afraid to seem ugly.

—Vera Pavlova

Our science is sensual, and therefore superficial.

—Emerson

Don’t sink me here in the half-mud sun. Don’t make me fly out of here twice, come back in cuffs, wander the border desert like a long-ago Jew.

—Deb Olin Unferth

If in equi-distance I become a dead
wood, may my discontent grow
beneath me. I am far from holy

though, at times, I find harmony
with watermarks. I am friends with many people younger than myself

and I am still young.

Silver soul-less suckers stole my saddle after knocking back the apple I battled over with the papal authorities in Rome.

It has been prophesied, that technology will cause the collapse of
any advanced capitalist nation, advanced used loosely, and that our fate
is balanced like an egg on a finger, jointed by cogs. In my throat there
is a martian ship vacated by the martian that sat in the martian ship, because,
upon coughing, the engine whirs and I can feel the air chase through the open hatch
swirl like syrup in the center of the machine

and flee. and exhale no martian. no martian in the exhale of my breath nor my
cough. I do believe talk of poverty has scared him further down my throat,
out of ear-shot. No attempt has been made to excavate the saucer from my larynx. 
I have started eating less and losing weight. With my friends I pitch the thought of
our economic doomsday. The artifice of inventors yielding product which needs
no human hands nor brain to come together once the wheels have been kicked

with boots full of feet. I propose cannabis and cloven-hoofed innovation.
We transfigure first. A pulse and a shift, we are dragons, or fauns, mermaids/mermen. Our stomachs spun into organic web of dispensable acid. I imagine what happened to the martian. Did I digest him? Is he drifting
underground with sewage. Did he teleport like a lapse in attention?
What brought him here and into my throat? Was he fearful of his home’s posterity?
Was there an even smaller martian ship missing it’s martian lodged in his throat as
well? I pull back the walls of my apartment and see a fortress, held up by panels
of wood, crawling with a fetid smell. I cough. The whir and swirling. I become hungry and bite my tongue.
 

The fugue that falls is a satin sheet
above your thirsty awareness. Water,
a viscous dirty, trembles like a dog
on your skin. Veins burn emerald in

the strata of wealth. The gold standard
dips itself into a pool of ink. A crutch
carries prophecy, like a relay, looped

like a shell, into schools and bars

saying the same thing. We are destined
to shed like waves of silt, too far from the
water to be carried off, too close
to the city to be kicked in through doors. 

Better to blame sacrilege on the pious
for keeping such unholy standards.  

Submitting to have a manuscript published tomorrow, fingers crossed, leg snapped, luck in a pile of digital paper.

Take it back to the counter, remove the peel,
bend the tail into knotted timeline and the
promise will look like goosebump blush. The

smile will not hang like crescent moon but
glow like lambent flesh. Running wicked with

the idea of love, with dopamine and finger-
print gold. Track marks from the door
to the kitchen tell you that yesterday

needs remembering. What you’re left with
is either perfect or it isn’t. Chances are
it is. If you will, believe that the end isn’t

possible and that again, the skin will warm. 

A blank space in your brush stroke and I’m pulling
the seal at the peak of your amber protein. I am

finding the places where we dream together about
animals with no eyes and too many teeth. The hum

of wild washes clean impurity. We are toddlers
questioning the air with full throttle grins. Breaking

back the walls and opening land into silk mesh.
Who calls our name, winds & breathes but doesn’t listen

and we see them at the end of distance drinking
chalk dust, when the chest heaves with hunger,

and the emptiness becomes communal sacrifice,
the dead rising like the split bone of home.  

Behind the door, paradise, a platform for time
to stretch and give us memory. Memory of

parents that pulled apart to keep their children
together, of blood loose in an midnight ambulance,
of carriages made from fingers, of blue salt that
stings us clean, of the first time we sewed our-
selves into the cloth of each others eyes and I
couldn’t stand to blink away from you. This is when

the roiling folds of valley talk flatten into commitment 
and the blessed bless the best in us. I will hold your

head like a ball of neon light when the crimes seep through
pores like sour sickness. The world didn’t mean to 
disbelieve. The rest didn’t mean to fall like leaves from
branches that hang like the arms of starving children.

You were a blooming burst of energy, swirling through
dark matter and flipping the tombs like resurrected
beams of balance. Here with perfect sight, I am
hardening, chrysalis shell and harrowing, feeding
whatever parts of myself I can spare to the parts
of you that went missing when the light struck. 

I am stumbling and making moons with 
money alongside the smoke shop
that sells us to them. I am growing

forward with stubble and destined
to whiten like bleached cotton.
Where face meets fortune I crawl
from the tunnel spun through
the fingers of the woman who
spoke of the interconnectedness
of all things and I believe her.

Just like I believe that love is
falling into the lake we hold hands
in gravity around. And it’s the page
I dog-eared and promised to read
to you when the pills couldn’t
sate your undying urge to soften

and collapse simultaneously. There
is heart and pressure and vortex
in speaking to eachother. The
ground rocks beneath our feet

when we protest our circumstance.
On the table, books and magazines,
pens and notes, schedules that leak
neon into the composite structure.

I will not cease to flow through
the current of awareness. Gleaning
the knowledge of a prophets flippant
pallet. Passing equations filled with

probable ambiguity through the
mail slot cut through your sternum.
The day we die, we will know that

success, the filigree finish line, is
not a burden, but a story that unfolds
like fingers when we greet.