thirsty

i haven’t
drank in a long time
but i can close
my eyes and
taste the phantom
burn with notes
of smoke and
pure ambrosia
tonight i lay
in the darkness
a hazy transparency
hanging heavily
the fire of
creation burning
wildly in my belly
stripped bare
beyond nudity
a transient state
somewhere between
implausible need
and the wiry itch
of dreary acceptance
spinning hay into
iron pyrite by
the bushel and the
peck before slipping
a noose around my

i dream of birds
a court of utter
avian disapproval
side glances down
slender necks
as i plead my case
knowing the verdict
was rendered before
i got my summons

i don’t know
if i am so heavy
i crash down through
the matress springs
or so intangible
i slip unfettered
into the dirt
nary disturbing
the worms mindlessly
eatingshittingfucking
in a blind oblivion
and i can taste
a hint of smoke
and the slightest
presence of ambrosia
burning my tongue
a cleansing flame
leaving scars in the
shape of smiles
flashing in the dark

a careful
conflagration
of intense pressures
on a molten core
keep the planet
wobbling idiotically
toward certain
blissful annihilation
despite it all
through tectonically
seismic contortions
we don’t slide
between the atoms
and momentarily
we matter
we are not just
matter vibrating
but we actually
matter and time
a contrived abstract
dilates with an
exaggerated ripple
satisfying in
the same way a
cat stretches with
a leonine yawn

i haven’t drank
in a very long time
not enough to
erase the ache or
feel the warmth as
it blossoms in
your chest like
falling in love
and that moment is
the only one that
shines in technicolor
splendor on those
nights where i
slipslide between
manic panics and
sanguine serendipities

i am a buddha
shivering under a
slate gray blanket
i am a ball of
ruptured divinity
hiding in plain
sight with crescent
scars that dance
in the starlight
for every smile
that made my
heart stutter in
these prolonged periods
wavering between
devastating sorrows

i would
like a drink
just one
in a smoky bar
i would savor
the notes of
smoke and
a hint of
ambrosia
the door would
open and in
the dingy mirror
i would see
you and this
endless nagging
ache would
pop and i
would smile
as you came up
and hugged me
from behind

and this is why
sleep is a contemptuous
whore who nips
at my every step
too heavy or
too intangible
unable to face
the judgement of
the audacious court
of avian condemnation
in the darkness
between vibratory matter

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