restless things

4.11

impossibilities

that arch meeting your waist, holding
two pieces of yourself together: could it
bear roots, create deeper fissures to trace?
are these crevices: skin-wrapped depths
in my back, suppose to grow room for wings?

my breath was taken to give life into stifled two hills
behind, naked and bedded in blood trying to
scream the answer. those knuckles opened, reaching
far as tearing tissue. mist flurries emerged once
cleaned, smooth like fuzz on ripen peaches,
pointing up like fresh short grass, only
to spread out as branches for fruitful feathers.
my femurs bowed to slopes engraved in-between
heaving & laughing the question. parts in me lived,
died, hollowed, and scorched, finally making my own
ecosystems. not to be threaded along to dirt,
but among skies. now i'm above rivers and meadows;
now i move like river-streams in grass.

these feathers they—grasp air to palm the sky.
while i grasp the sky to drink from, and make dreams
out of blue nothing. should my flight separate the sky
with steam? are these feathers: swinging
in a playground, suppose to fall,
down-stream in air? i lean my back,
enfold my wings &
become a comet.

4.12.

relentless body / reckless self

Skin & bones failed
to make me whole and
whispers when I scream
my tongue out in vain;
"Did you know
a body feels
just to choke you?"
And it's relentless
Push & pull
grounds me
face-down
in the pill
ow. I'm just
so childish
to the mess
of surviving in
Skin & bones.

Spoiler

this one feels painfully emo... which was not intentional but i did get inspired by a lyric from a chamber pop/ rock song during a very "feeling-emo" time of the day.

4.13.

In the springest day of spring

pollen in air trust-falls,
scattered but bundled, wept
endlessly, for finding relief
in the threshold
of finding their place
in your thoughts, or on
the ground. anywhere,
anything, to be held.

4.14.

who told you
you was at the point
of being a star
we all are full of what's
necessary. not all of us
has a light. you can't just
raise cupped hands to the sky,
hold light. give a toast.
when it seams between your
fingers, shines through fissures.
you are no one
but another under
the stars.

4.15.

leap of faith

my leap of faith is when i trip off the curb of the street. at least then i'd be the closest to standing than falling deeper onto man-made steeps. i know a leap of faith means being prepared to not be in the hands of anyone, to be favored. that i know, neither a god or gravity, will lessen the pain of a street's goosebumps engraved as gashes, my head beat-in the ground, the present written on palms. supposedly, my hands are close-minded to feel greatly; how many times have i shielded myself only to get hit? too many times as told by my fear of being touched. this isn't faith. it's just safe knowing i don't have to curve into myself just to be saved.

4.16.

dirty kids

sneaking out from the creek into streets
tattooed with seed-bumps for us to grow over
fear, trace goosebumps   popping them
with overarching burnt tires. instead i  use my feet
to be blessed by the animals whose   don't fret
their fangs   snake   to shake your human world    
you scaredy cat, signing off with a piss-off you
boney dog like you're made up of bones and
nothing else besides what it wants   wanting
always to be showered in  his treasures his gold
his god (the bone).  how could we be so full but
hollowed out? i break dishes to see how the cracks
make a sound. people break people to
make the world. bring me anything to
make a life for myself that doesn't break
you. that territory we wondered about in the other
life suckling the mother's breast, before we became
beasts in this life, could be ours now
since we're just dirty kids
missing from the world.

Spoiler

gods, i think my current poet inspiration really shines here. very relieved that i can write something that doesn't revolve around the sun/light like a million times. despite the lack of theme, it really feels like i've limited myself throughout this month.

4.17

what is my heartbeat (if its not yours)

you can't feel a heartbeat at a distance.
you think a ball bouncing on the ground
with every force of your hand again and a
gain is what mines is. really, it's just water
dripping to descend. cold but fair for
a dry next day. starting slow then witty,
smart since it wants to count the time
too. there's a hope light as feathers, tick
ling the cage it's in, but it hurts
the heart. just a painful burst fleeing just
to be felt again. if i let my hand be a mirror,
i feel the two-faced pain: close & distant
at once.

4.18.

creases of my fingers &
palms flatten then be free.
many veins branch outwards.
stretch marks ache to reach
far. so many lines are direct
with no direction.

Spoiler

would've loved to post another longer poem but I realized it was getting too late and I was getting tired... so there's this!

4.19.

Spoiler

My
Gods,

their hands compress my head
deeper into my rest. I thank blood
in my chest to never mend as seams
in water. Never remind me I'm alive
in pressure. Let my seething whither
to play pretend with gasps fiddling
on flight, so I lie: then, my chest
is a hollowed out ruin.

Why
couldn't
rain fall
when I asked?
My
Gods,

my breath is just so dry just so
secret. There is nothing else to feel
but a fist finding out it can bruise
to take space. Shrinking inwards I do
& hard material sustains. My body has
always been too soft to remain. Sink
ing deeper in the tub I do—it carry
stories; lesions in its prayer do
tell: When I dump waterfalls on my
head, only for the bowl it pours from
to fall, I hadn’t learned the lesson
memories can’t be washed away.

Please
Gods, I
couldn’t make
feeling dead be
beautiful, so I
made my living
ugly.
My
Gods

why did you
want me to
feel this
much?

4.20.

After going to the grocery store walking
down the street feeling bad all day I

bit down an apple's core, my teeth tongs-and-all,
& thought its juice would make me hard candy, until
tongues-and-nothing, i was left sweaty & my coat
just bitter. rolled my throat up to spill insider details
to point its seeds so they would spew from my lips
puckered into sling-shots to make things spring red & ripe but
they just became thorns in very round bushes. it was
a body pierced with bullets now, tight but frayed, and
in a way used its pain to guard itself from the outside
& its insides growing roses. still though my deeds made
a brush a head a world when it should've been just
a bush. i confess i just wanted
to make something out of
something else.

4.21.

walk in a hospital, just to walk out
sick? isn't that a funny thing life likes
to do? spit at your face, laugh at your mucus
see how you're out of focus from its hand it
pets you with? instead it wants to write riddles
& irony with your blanket used as blank
paper. highlight you in red to get rid of
your awareness that you live to hate
not to struggle death.

4.22.

last night i looked at the floors: sickened,
but warm by all the mess of snot-ridden tissues
balled up into many self-hugs, resting like fallen
leaves, in this land i've created
just for me to be a mess in