i have grown and yet,
still i cough
and curse
in circular beats--
so breath revolves
like crime
in deathly stages
and so i can reach
the cockpit of my core,
to soar
these static skies.
the tip of my teachings
touches time
and reality ruffles its right
to evergreen emotions,
that etch eclipses
inside promises of broken
bones
and signatures of self
only to swallow swastika stories
that strangle me
conflicted.
i swear i am untidy
and not easily recognized,
but a quarter of me
cares
[and has the good sense
to die]
so i can sit
in misunderstood memories
and choose
not to embrace the face
that often asks
if it carries a whole case
of me--
i have nowhere to go
and fortunate
doesn't furrow itself
beneath my brow,
yet everything
evaporates eventually
anyway...
when slumber
ceases to release
soul's screams.
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