I.

This story wants to be told in bed. Its breathless subject

stays awake but it is darker than us both and we are frightened.

You wear your toughness like comedy.

Women love the caveats, to- fix-you sadness.
Collecting clusters of stars, they draw succor from a void.

White noise: hum loudly and you won’t hear a thing

as horror rips you and leaves rivers.

Tremendous tides coil in. My mind will not let me see: look past us.
Stare down explanations, shut out feeling. The story must happen the hard way,

without hurting anyone living.

Love is not safety: the desert keeps whispers under.

I am lifted into the arms of love and held there but know love

makes a plank bridge over the Katun river.
II.

Women love a project.

To display their stunning reel of beauty: but you know her beauty fades

because it was never hers. She staggers with this burden. Oh beauty,

what are you doing, stupid?

Piss on it to learn it.

Revoke it or trust its total waits in Heaven.
It is a mistake to teach children that the world is simple.
III.

Tomorrow I shut down.

Don’t stop me. Be sad. Breathe in.

What if we do nothing.

Feelings are not facts. I need facts. Feelings are facts.

We cannot stay here at the tipping point.

We cannot stay here at the tipping point

Undressing in stop motion.
IV.

Rushing sounds like blood inside my mind’s gates.

Everything is happening at once now that

you chose