I lower myself,
eyes glassed and mind grated open gushing my eyelids like door hinges set to the beat of
with the skin on my face, so still and quiet
no matter how firmly they shout my ears are past the gates and the doors are locked and I am
here in my
Eyes hinged. Lowered. Beats.
Time shuts down
swirls me and loosens sinews this
minutely oxygenated atmospheric ecstasy tells me secrets
and here, for once, for the first time in the history of mankind vocal cord evolution
I hear you.
You are breathing.
Taking my hand in your own and inviting me to a feast of
initiation and spiritual vegetation
encouraging me to thumb through the contract I’d signed with the blood ripped from my
when they asked me to state my full name.
You don’t have a full name
and together we breathe your mouth is my own and our lips are kin and you teach me
the art of sound.
Animals don’t have names—and why should they—and for their part their suffering is
so who gave us permission to speak so loud
and tear our veins and bleed for sport and personalized permissive persecution
to warp each other and ourselves and dismiss our souls from existence
based on science and the lottery and earthbound trash cans and I don’t see why it isn’t all a forgery—
this recklessness and hasty formula of unresponsive digits
tapping away typing so tightly and triggering plastic deities.
This spiritual vegetation you feed me is
and tastes like the moon after rain;
a spotlight ocean range
with you, the lighthouse keeper clad in translucence and other guiding perceptions
beckoning me home to me again, for review.
How can they know the right answers when I’ve never heard them question anything?
They spend limited breaths chastising me for youth and ignorance when
don’t they hear how I bleed these days and
can’t they read the tattoos on my soul asking why
why, for what,
for when HOW COME
they shake me by the shoulders and ask me to sign your full name here, please,
State your full name,
Give us your full name,
Full name here just sign here with this pen and your blood and just sign
It’s lidless. Formless. Broken, we say, and
we are wild animals, you and I, together in our feast and our review and our breathing
and here we are whole.