Two Poems

I Dream My Ex Is

calling me     I am eighteen     trapped     want to cut
over the phone     she says casually     as clipping
her nails     slave to the grave I gave in     casually
as kissing     a statue     something grave or
engraved     I was a shaven boy then    a pawn
the game     spiraled on     the stars swiveled     like god 
drunk in his leather     chair     calling me     casually
want to cut over the phone little shaven boy     I cede
& recede     not unlike the drugged moon’s     tides
with my shitty flipphone     I trapped     the drunk
stars     the partying planets     divining something
I suppose     calling me     trapped     is another way
of saying     I wanted to cut     myself like a statue


from THE BIPOLAR ACROSTICS

Beauty maddens me.
I have seen the ravens circling, full-throated, furious,
Proud
Of unnamable things.
Loss feathers within.
And how about you, are you 
Ready to go cage shopping?

___

Boneheaded,
I desecrate another
Perfectly fine morning.
Old habits etcetera etcetera.
Longing, language, leather.
All the same to me. Nothing to
Read between these lines.

___

Bishops couldn’t keep me still. Best friends couldn’t stop
Illness’s slow crawl south down my spine. God
Pluck me
Out the open window—or at least a gram of guidance. 
Light, apparently, is essential. Mornings,
Apparently, are known to be awful. I’ve
Read so much about myself.

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