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Description
Fire-whip crack of
The Impulse.
(I have always felt
restless.)
All my molecules
forever shifting,
even when resting.
Ghost clinging to
the edge of the desk,
the footprint dance
across the floorboards,
brilliantly wandering,
shaking the room with
a silent loud, a crooked
crackling presence.
Words and color shuffling
or capturing souls.
Feeling unworldly –
the copper eyed tourist
only here for fixed moments
on borrowed clock-hands,
in burrowed chapters, with
a wrap of camouflage skin.
The elephant squirming,
squeezing in.

Because if it is not war,
it is art and ardor
and the impeccable
fear, frantically washing
out and over me like
white foam shampoo.
(Because there is so
much more to do.)

No matter the lullaby,
the cooed sedative,
or the tragic emptying
of the coffee cupboard,

I will always be the
stirring sea storm
and whiplash, electrified
and terrified while laughing

as we ride and hijack
this elevator to my funeral.

Description
Fire-whip crack of
The Impulse.
(I have always felt
restless.)
All my molecules
forever shifting,
even when resting.
Ghost clinging to
the edge of the desk,
the footprint dance
across the floorboards,
brilliantly wandering,
shaking the room with
a silent loud, a crooked
crackling presence.
Words and color shuffling
or capturing souls.
Feeling unworldly –
the copper eyed tourist
only here for fixed moments
on borrowed clock-hands,
in burrowed chapters, with
a wrap of camouflage skin.
The elephant squirming,
squeezing in.

Because if it is not war,
it is art and ardor
and the impeccable
fear, frantically washing
out and over me like
white foam shampoo.
(Because there is so
much more to do.)

No matter the lullaby,
the cooed sedative,
or the tragic emptying
of the coffee cupboard,

I will always be the
stirring sea storm
and whiplash, electrified
and terrified while laughing

as we ride and hijack
this elevator to my funeral.