it is only the quietest
and smallest miracle
that has me believing in god

and it sounds so specifically of rain

in my beaten heart
there are eight seasons

god in believing me
has that miracle
smallest and quietest

we are strange machines
with the familiar text
of a foreign language

a consciousness
that condenses an existence
into a single word

again and again
distilled to points of light
that dance

four are freed

goodnight you
beast fever

nine are forgiven

all of you
all of you
all of you

finishing school (scraps)

the times are weird and raw
it is a considerable effort
in any direction

the news is good
but the delivery is sloppy
and I do not seem interested

the world reveals itself far too slowly
and I am far too impatient
in any direction 

I am never alone
but the company is not very good
and I do not seem interested

moral rose

 that which defied physics
 and opened its wholeness to the world
 that which grew up to the wild
 where sex never meant so much
 that which never quit
“thank you / for your patience”

I was never perfect
I never meant to be
I never needed it
I never knew what I needed

I am lost within my own
wicked preoccupations
I am no better
no
I am better
 
you seem unconvinced

I was suckered under
the affective lives of others
I was inspontaneous
 
I was told until him
the room bends swells
realigns and centers
upon him
 
each of us
one lost sovereign
four lost to us
vigil nihilists

he breathes decent
in my ears
his punchline name
eases up draws lines
 
we will run
we will see what yields
we will run

slipped under
bad social patterns
within all apart him

I am everything
no
not everything
no
yes everything

only tragic / however justified (scraps)

misunderstanding / ‘an inability to enter into spontaneous communication with the affective lives of others’ / pinned young liberal to my chest / the room bends swells realigns and centers upon him / lost sovereign / he breathes decent into my ears / eases up / draws lines / comforted by his miasmatic loss / afforded / overgrown valleys of the beaten

unreason

yourself

and your own

gentle histories

you challenging

those so indelicately

let to be no longer

wholly preoccupied

nothing said so abruptly

and with such harmony

leaving little more than

righteous derivation

and its endlessly nested

fragmentations

spinning the vague movements

of unintended interactions

into the elastic fabric of grace

so heavily implied

that it is wrought into existence

so sincere in conception

that it is never questioned

playing hearts on sleeves

in deed and in faith

tireless merciful and flawed

gods and goddesses

diving and surfacing

ground crumbling beneath their feet

inseparable from their own abstractions

doubling their messages

for a war and a fight is a fight

for a war when no miracles

act upon it 

we are ignorant
wilder success stories
of a world guided by empirical failure
and the inability to reproduce results
 
our laws are imitation
brief puzzling noises
that are rewritten
as ridden implies a rider
 
the days are endless
and all but impossible
and we should have a better reason
for making these pretty things suffer so
 
gazed deep into the eyes of a god
who can see you yet in you
we are a little distracted
by the colors of her irises
 
a foggy vision of mercy
drifting carelessly through the streets
drawn such inside out who
was the flood after the sun and moon
 
the hell with it
and all other things airtight
in their ease of being
ever in retreat
 
hold time take a seat
on any god damned thing at all
did some good
got tired
 
the virgin at rest
naked and pissed
maintain conversation
humbled by a bit of food
 
her is a place
silver lit ugly luckless shot
strikes blindly howls madness
scared and lost to scent
 
some few who wouldn’t have her
and he who would
who knew purpose and might
who knew no straight lines
 
we take the worst things
and we don’t make them any better
as matches burning
through their own wicked pasts
 
we are naive thin and white
and it happens like a carfire
or a getaway gone wrong
an event

a daughter

feigning sickness

under the specter

of soulless wit

cherishing that holy ghost

while it still dances

through her world

little champion of impossible graces

little ghost of lost charms

left to the dense volumes

of space between words

she is stated under

a word written that breathes

and speaks more than itself

a phrase that projects

greater than its sum

a sense amplification

tracing links between intention

and action moving at all

godforsaken speeds

at once

herself in all directions

and yet

this is the direction she takes

this is the time she takes

and in arrival

this is the reach she extends

and the grasp she exceeds

a word written and divinely guided

and by what law

is this not scripture

is this not the whole history

of easy marks and definite curators

the new needlessness

and the direct refusal

of any relevant imagery

dualities coalescing existing

and repeating ad infinitum

this is dissatisfaction

this is a holiness I’d never known

quite like she who’d struck me

as a rose or a bottle

as charming as mice teasing snakes

or a helicopter hovering

over an unspectacular fire

committed in the memory of

a great comical nothing

in a vastness named nothing

stumbling dumbfounded under the airwaves

walking in the dim light of her own sparks

falling into bed and through sleep

dancing easy through furious reconciliation

guiltless and placeless

telegraph and haste

sired by walker

cleareyed misty she sitting

crosslegged directly before me

and one other pacing between us

we are strangers

in places without people

of body movements

expanded evolutions

and limit violations

we lead blameless lives

by wars which saw us as liars

which dressed our saints as sinners

and flushed their cheeks hot with shame

all eyes on one icon

last seen with a pinless grenade