solitude white of hand knuckles crippling
muscles strip out of skin barrier
of solace feign presence feign hands

directionless unwavering tone of voice
covers and covers and, covers
wing tips floating not flown

crumble letters between hands fingers
rub off under circumstances run off
under pressure ring fingers rubbed

incense of childhood burns familiar
smoke plumes inhale nostalgia, nose
bleeds essence of exit memories exit wounds

tea steeping in father’s
eyes tigers and hair loss untangle
auburn healing calluses trace back

confluence of internal voyeurism
discharged identity, incubates passively
insert tremors fertile insignia abscess

deceased in wind’s glanced crucifixion
a burnt down an ash an abstract
smudge on backward scraping hand

the voice is in a
mason jar in a
fridge in a
soup kitchen
the sea queen’s
wrath in a
handful of herbs in
a pepper shaker
she cries, in
a lethargic metamorphosis
in a subway
station in
sine waves wishing
for her voice
in the mason jar
to be devoured
in a song
that reminds her
of home under
water, all the
patrons in their phones
clicking away in
choice lives now
in a cellophane dream
in a line in
a shotglass the
subtleties abstain
her in a
cocktail dress in
phantasmagoria in
an asthma attack
the siren
sits on the edge
of her chair
wishing for a
sailor in a white
robe in a passive
aggressive kiss
with chapped mouth
licked her neck
in a straight
line to her
chest in a
flashback in a
scent connecting
dots of other
selves images in
a night in
a memoir in a
book read over in
her head in
her voice
in a
mason jar

My conscience is a crow
rattling rusted tin cans against
the cage bars of my jail my heart
thick oiled feathers in blood in
paint splatters
his calcified talons scrape
the ground digging
finds memories hanging on
naked wires crackle sparking
names of forgotten nomadic finitudes
involuntary in their actions
they did not choose them they
can not choose between death and
low hanging rafters