Phantom nights permit no oversight. Ice-moon-wind creeps through all fabric. The sun has not slept in weeks. In these tracts, however, everything is high-contrast: the impact of closer light, giant white pines falling on blackened carpets gratuitous wildflowers, glass creeks, snow slouching into astute lakes, the unswerving arrogance of the mountains— in these tracts everything is emergent ecstatic and balmy from the long metropolitan wilderness, impossible gradients appear with ligaments rus...

Flames struggle, flower, and in consuming time must die. We humans grow gradually deranged in the magnitude of the passing. We decide to search for forests for kindling and for frost. Confounded we watch with wildfires’ brittle brevity the smoke of ourselves circulating the fragility of flames happening.

This instant tastes like wormwood, scrap metal, perspiration, latex gloves, stale cookies, boxed wine, aluminum foil, petroleum vapors, your honest forehead, the refrigerator’s insides, the salt of your back, worn-out gestures, your blooming indifference, pavement, gravity, beauty, clean wind, green apples, the heavy future, the expansive horizon, peace, soil, & living on.

Trembling with the thorny letters of my knowledge I hesitated to push those loaded signs through my esophagus, to lay their slimy points over the soundscapes and the medical counters (the ones that you sterilized expressly for me.) I knew there wasn’t much time left, and I wanted to wait alone with the long scars of the truth rising undead through my throat, alone with the results of my internal interrogations, alone to determine what to do next.

In jest the summits toss reckless torrents of clouds in the new air, the shadows like maps horsing around on their flanks in jest the summits squirm and are sealed beneath the unquiet footsteps of the people. in jest the summits break themselves down, aeon upon aeon break themselves into fractions a dwarfing erosion a violent peace overflowing. and racing downwards before the lightning strikes, rumors of the speed of wind ignite over darkening worlds. the summits exhale and laugh in their sle...

These blue fields are thick and wild with perimeters. The uprising wind returns to itself. Focus. This is happening. The present is speaking. The colors are running, suddenly watertight, and dripping through imaginary, manifesting scenarios: the things to which I would never concede. Things are getting scary. To this I will concede. I have pierced my skin, impaled my leather perimeters. The opaquest of scenes are manifesting. My energy leaks in torrents like the colors. Focus. I have never in...

August blood. Fire-veined leaves remind the soil. The water is yellow with the shedding of the pines. Now, autumn. Everything is sweetening. The body ages in layers. Unfelt and unmarked the river is bleeding. There are leeches in these waters. What did you touch that you have them on your hands? Chosen endings. Bare as human skin. The red rusted colors of indifference. Summer lunacy dissolves with biting aftertaste. Now, anaesthetic dawn. The wet haze. The pale counter-productive groping for ...

I. How many unfaced nascent or bursting threads of light swell and squander below and behind the surface contours, the crust of each sentence? How many implications, heated and layered and folded like the rocks, are breeding behind the throat’s flights, below the asphalt or the spiral staircase of the eyes? II. Dressed up in hours the soil and the skin exhale. Guarded and only partially offered, meaning lives halfway camouflaged: snow and condensation, lichens and mosses, thousands of sweeten...

Evening was a haphazard reign of tepid steam. A few high-pitched and homesick words; a few more passive blows. Things drum themselves into the prosaic. The boots of knowing beat the details into the dirt. Through backseat windows, a yellowing familiarity streams past. Only to sleep at home with the puzzle of awakening: another notch, another aeon. Another overdue forgetting. These years will petrify beyond the core of my sight. I am perplexed by the quick dilution of dreams. I don’t want to b...

We live on a breathing, variegated plastic-wrapped globe where flourescent cacophonies stain the ink of night, where nameless anxieties slink breathe pilfer consciousness through the fault lines of a rasping abrading economy. We choke the fear behind our skin. We forget to wring it out. Instead we hide in the most nameless of cities. Neon lights drown out the porous plasma membrane wet immediacy of our cavernous undressing roiling realities. Headlights braid themselves into the pathways of as...