P.E.A.C.E.

I’d like to move far, far away
to a distant projected reality within universal consciousness
free from the tyranny of style.

I’d like to find some new electrons with whom to collide.
Know what?
Fuck electrons; they’re too negative.

Protons and electrons always cause explosions.

You can see how this is frustrating.

EMPIRICAL EVIDENCE THAT CONSCIOUSNESS CONTINUES TO EXIST AFTER THE TRANSITION KNOWN AS "DEATH"

I’ve seen heaven in a downed power line
close to the earth and tangled in the trees,
undulating in the wind like black Chrysopelea;
the last fiery remnants of a rogue kite that refuses to leave quietly.

Butterflies flitter about her live wire hair
like ghost children poking each other in the sins,
saturating dish towels with the energy raining from her fingertips,
huffing her aura and getting high.

And there I was, all of seven, maybe,
my syrupy fingerprints smudged across the glass,
a greasy cheek pressed between the floral print humeral veils
frocked over the pane, separating the sanctuary from the sinners.

To see that serpent hissing sparks, the crabgrass ignited
with ticklish orange arms outstretched, grasping for nimbus,
bridging the current between nature and science, it left the boy
praying for lightning, to whom, he is no longer sure.

FLAT POWER SPECTRAL DENSITY

Pregnant mindbelly.
Detached, ethereal fetuses

generating hypnotic tones of aural sex,
motorboating their cherubic little lips

in the amniotic fluid, the sonic equivalent
of the Rapture in full reverse.

Theologians, I implore you,
there is something holy in this

audio pastiche tickling my eardrums with
wet pinky fingers made of music;

the soundtrack, such a sharp atmospheric contrast
to the life story it scores, with its poor character

development. And my feet sticking to the floor.
Sounding like the future if this were the past

is a symphonic quality held in high esteem.
The hum heard between walls, that white noise

in a black room, is retrospective foresight asking
what happened? But somewhere between mind and heart,

pale horses tow gilded wagons
with a cacophonous carousel calliope caboose,

the chromatic cavities whistling the steam of muses.
When the temperature of the steam is just right,

I put a stethoscope to my neck and listen.

WHY BIRDS COLLIDE WITH AIRPLANES

The sallow glimmer of streetlights
encroaches upon thick sky
as stars get lost in urban glow.
Voices muffled by broad doors and sheetrock,
squealing fan belts traveling at a constant finite speed,
You prop yourself up, shoulder freckles
aligned like some lesser known constellation,
overlooked, but nonetheless beauteous.

Your rubber words bounce off walls
and ricochet off the pine floors,
the shrapnel from your lexicon
crashing into my sternum with the
force of Adam West era Batman onomatopoeia:
Thwack! Pa-Pow!

Words born out of wedlock once read so severe
back when revenge was a sound
and love was a taste
that didn’t lose its flavor so quickly.

I study the sacred geometry of your external shell;
the topography of moles, surface scars,
where the meteor landed.
Shoulder blades to protect your blindside.
Ribcage prison for bagpipe lungs.
Rogue heart incarcerated.

Long after you fall asleep, I tell you,
the howls of theta waves reverberating through the air ducts,
I inhale your dreams.
They smell like gasoline.

They fuel my human vehicle.

I talk in circles and create a ring of words
with which I promise to love you to pieces
so tiny and jagged, the razor-sharp slivers
cut the heels of suitors and attack the forefoot
at the faintest scent of lust.

Your elbow unlocked, shoulder remiss,
“We’re in it for the long haul,” you say,
tonguing a ring of your own,
packaged in a saliva box.
We have no use for diamonds.
Not where we are going.