the blood floods the porous plooms of my undereyes, cheeks blooming at the anxious riot of thoughts. i am running down, my limbs bridge between me and the sinking world. if it is possible, i am separating from the fringes of society. seeking sanction under wool blanket rooms. my mouth moves in looping lows and darting eyes give the impression, i live in the underground. days and weeks sticky with their theme, is it that my obsession with age and the wreckage of past that creeps into my sleep. it’s beautiful, even in patchwork quilts of moments that spread eagle over the beaded build of my forehead. i take it all down like a poet of meditative slander, it’s going on, a breadth of my unwritten legacy. and when i am gone, what memory will glide over every stranger i thought i knew, never knew enough. it’s sideways glances, the organic broth of human encounters – it’s a fever of always trying to remember, this is all there is. no perfection as perfect as my imperfections. every night i paint the stars, black and white shadow puppet harmony while the slits of passing light caress the corners of my bedroom. looking for truth, if it is possible to push through the cracks of language, if we can meet in the space between, the saddled purity of a blink and an iris cackle.