opisthion

this is not the end of things
the backward-time
twilit, too-soon, and i must speak
that i am not the harbinger
or even the figurehead
no prophet am i
just a swelling resurgence
apples, pears, fruits of the valley
green things that never grew
or never knew how, or never were taught
what am i but a small part
of these new roots

one is normalized

all is one, said the scientist
glumly crystallizing quaternary carbons
aglow with sinuous and silent stressors
internally howling, rancor and stench in his claustrophobic,
nearly deceased sense of self

incessantly, unpleasantly self-aware. ambitious.

pure venom, pure reductionism. all wrong. all indistinguishable.
everything plays into
everything else.

sulfates

the way you roll off of my tongue
escalating, waving the way you carry on
stumbling me home with
scents of roses, ears full of cologne
two in the morning, kid, it's way past late
the arid lack of you in my mouth
the way you carry on
walking me home with a nighttime presence
or a daytime stare, it's too early for this
a case of you would knock me
far off my feet.