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


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


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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