I have a belly full of ink — penultimate nausea. I swallowed something through my eyes, I think. The tensions between constellations arrayed my retinas’ red antennas with star starts. Now they are lumps in my core, bloated black holes trying to swallow indigestible quasars. My body does not disagree with the cosmos. Everything that disagrees with everything in space-time, in eternity, in our busy rumbling bubble of human vanity swirls and sinks here in my gut, fighting it out.
Journal - Poetry
Pythagorean Hymn
Sphere and cylinder, skeleton formulas of thought, yet walk on shrieking chalk heels these neural corridors, float and grin ghostlike through dusty synaptic nodes. The god of mathematics laughs at his supposed disproof. Pythagoras is stretched like Prometheus, the hypotenuse drawn out, bisected by the future pencil. For him I will sacrifice the first of the looseleaf flock, ring the bell theory and construct the imaginary field from the real.
Journal - Poetry
Complaints of the righteous
The skies opened and complaints of the righteous rained down, a flood of soggy corrections clogging the gutters, jamming the wires. Their effect on the ecosystem is the subject of competing claims. But this much is certain: a sky full of grumbling is better, forever, than a sky full of bombs.