high solstice
** ** Sag it
low— eyedrops down
the eyeballs bulging. A bowl of fears:
scars and skulls and all.
Asymmetry of features
contours the security
of pillow cases anguished:
you say, it's the only world
I've known.
Jaw bones crashed in a dash—
aligning midair their particles
with those seldom caring afternoon
lights— like star signs shining
amidst darkness
we believe in:
inner, outer
— beauty — you don't
ever vibe with it:
you engage time
in the turbulence of heavens. Low
bass grumbling. I stay
still alive— a fugitive too dull
to flee from life:
death intolerant.
Metaphysics can be overwhelming–
this is what you've unwrapped from inner
beauty and inner thoughts. All of this, instead, my outer
mark on the world: a lie
whispered to it on the porch—
our brain tumors hang over there,
waiting to be picked up like figs,
as I breathe in
one last speech:
The philosophers don't deal with beauty
because they know they're ugly—
they don't wish to worry.
I: dumb/pretty. Guess,
I shed out
of ugliness
because nothing makes
sense anymore.
upper hornet
round dust