We Are Ships Crashing in the Night
of you is like money in a glass case in the sea: beautiful, untouchable, distorted, seductive, sinking. Or maybe it’s money dropped out of a helicopter into the sea and I’m on some twisted game show frantically grasping for bills and trying not to drown.
save you now; you’re at my memory’s mercy. Five weeks or 22 months chopped and screwed, laced with kaleidoscope dust, remixing the proportions of the past; a delusional narrator describing the sensation of my recollection’s fingers on the edges of reality.
is a healer and sometimes it’s a weapon. I will use each second to destroy you.
once again to recall your face, which feels like digging up a time capsule, dusting it off and spinning in a dozen circles, then putting it in a blender and seeing if it tastes like what I remember, which I know doesn’t really make sense, but neither does the fact that your face, the one that’s as elusive as it is beautiful, appears somewhere between “seatbacks” and “tray tables” and, like Mufasa in the clouds or Jesus on a potato chip, emerges in my diluted Sprite, and suddenly your lips feel permanently branded on mine, so I’m thinking to myself, if this plane crashed, I’d go down thinking about you, not because I love you but because maybe I could have and wouldn’t that be convenient?
I heard your voice but it was just echoes of a future version of myself, reverberating in a cave the size of the galaxy.
“BUT DO YOU MISS ME????”
I’m screaming louder and louder and over and over and listening to the emptiness’s brutal clarity. “Silence like a cancer grows” and I don’t need a biopsy to tell you it’s stage seven.
ships crashing in the night.
and swing a bat with fuck-it recklessness and bust me wide open ripe and raw like truth. Destroy me and watch what happens live: Sometimes I’m a chandelier and glass crashing the floor; other times I’m a piñata raining seedlings and music and Dave & Busters gift cards.
there is a rainbow at the bottom of my coffee cup and poetry beyond this pain.
zombie hands self-exhuming and blooming like flowers and I’m thinking that every graveyard is a garden.
have been building myself like a house for me. Maybe I am a Peace Machine. Maybe I am indefatigable light and vigilant wonder. Maybe my insides are a Pandora’s box on Opposite Day. Maybe my love is stacked to the Earth’s core like turtles. Maybe I am beauty all the way down.