by dan raphael
drowning in light lining my inner contours
from a new periodic table molecules cant get back to
where hands and feet are barely acquainted, capable of only pointing up or down
yet slinging particulars in a forest train of sunbeams
revealed by the finest dust, the most complex dried & flaked,
like a thousand fish in a spoonful
going where we can
swinging the much heavier bat
pointing to the horizon of red lips ive tasted the butterfly within,
the silicon hummingbird
holding half a library of momentum and biology
dive til we’re rich w/
whatever the heatflash seals inside
the new house on a 10 foot strip of land
helicopters raising questions that may not be ripe for weeks
we’ll never be rich enough, wanton, mobile enough
or is crossing this street my days labor, gathering car parts,
assembling holographically on the worldlet of my multi-jointed carapace
letting the birds speak for me,
hopping on various bars that move, illuminate or explode
eyes behind 16 screens im supposed to fold into concentric cubes
as sunrise from a new direction, sun suspended in mercury
the meter is running in each of us, fingering beads to accelerate the horizon wide train
my chest cant open enough to bind or bridle.
doesnt take long for wings to atrophy
i always walk like im playing racquetball, confident i’ll smell the flames before the heat,
more than concrete can bear, steel on a sweaty vacation,
this time metal will grow direct from the ground rooted in prepackaged water
and every spent battery since world war one,
my hands cant concentrate, cant follow instructions from when I was just a pair of gloves
with a narrow but powerful fragrance causing me to stamp the ground as if hooved,
bringing sparks of complaint from the 100 story condo of my femur–say it with me —
all our lips pressed to the windows and wailing our personal pitch
i predicted the weeks weather across my ribs and belly, stagnant fronts, hallucinatory isobars
where age is the opposite of potency, the freshest and fastest yet always familiar.
eventually i realized that *_is_* a mirror but my face is always different,
even in isolation im floating on faces, a jellyfish mattress w/ sheets of fused sand,
losing its spin as the drain collapsing itself frees the oceans
to claim the final third, getting high enough to escape into space and water the moon
so resistant to bathing and personal hygiene it wont even turn around
and taste the galaxies lighters of affirmation, strike and don’t let go
until the gas pressure brings us to our knees, humming with prosperity,
the warm magnet of comfort food, a steaming pile, seldom dark.
waking up isnt the finish line.
cartography is the fastest growing religion,
connecting the dots in the night sky, i never travel without a template,
re-entry is always the most dangerous part, like the first six hours of a fast,
the third night when all dreams are self-digesting,
after years of precise brushing my remaining wisdom tooth became buddha
or an incomplete snowman; a dog turns around with my face on its neck, its ears,
industrial halitosis for all the distilling milling and grilling has done inside me,
almost ready to split open and be the mold for a future dilemma,
when the news comes only in our sleep.
you must be fully sedated to vote, able to wake up anywhere
and get home on a dead man’s passport with someones perfume branding your crotch
a million silvered wings i could swallow at once and escape to the only home i remember,
one i could have drawn in 3^rd grade with trees inside like its always christmas

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