Somehow my life,
the one I believe is only lived now,
And considering a new life,
the one I believe is not living now,
showed my spine.
Sellers of this song, willingness to bless a throng, abyss of dwellers.
Nature turns leaves
as we change pains.
The Olympic sun
crashed into the continental U.S.
and sent a loosely docked ship
in reverse order,
stopping territorial discovery
Pellets felt like rainfall against my now marooned palms. I ran forward as my chest ran open. I slipped on my insides screaming cherry. My face made contact with the floor, separating my nose from its original position. The room full of silence, echoes of fragmented metal sliding back and forth from left to right wall — a sawed-off memory with sleeping powder at the blast point. Slowing moments hidden under the rusted metal auditorium chairs, bolted to the floor, in and out of consciousness; I’m bolted to the floor.
In this twilight, I remember a poem:
"These bone shanks will not wake immaculate
To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day:
They loll forever in colossal sleep;
Nor can God’s stern, shocked angels cry them up
From their fond, final, infamous decay.”
I decay and filter into the flooring long enough to pass the day, flying into the sky in a heaven’s lift. Dancing above my soul, I felt the tubes filling my body. I awake in the sterile white, covered in medical wrapping, mentally discussing my where-abouts. Family and friends cuddling around my unpadded bed frame, gripping to me as to not let go of my teenage life — as if they were supporting my weight and preventing a fall into rings. I stabilized for a moment the realize the tragedy of those brief seconds. I just now had time to breath. The thin blanket covering my chest was more comforting than I could have evaluated. I was not forced to decay.
Outside, the winter cold shows pellets in the sky, but I am safe from the icy snowfall. I am safe from the fear of slamming doors; I am safe from the fear of red rivers, but I will never forget it. I will protect, but I will not forget.
Emerald sentinel embarks the dark
sitting, pitting the ride outside.
An import sports car tarped
in candied red.
he notices a positioned blink
underneath the passengers seat,
Smoke and lights
send this ride
faster than it could ever travel
in one piece,
while the soldier
can no longer see
green with envy;
he sees blood
in vigilante red.
Taxidermy ravens will never again
Their devotion to front door trickery
has forced hunger against their empty stomachs.
Glassy eyes permanently gazing forward
as if an entrance was still knockable.
Prosthetic beak for the one lost
manually ringing the bell;
still a pet for the homeowner
when they want to expect company.
To indigo dreams
marking the lavender bed frames,
swirling under the wooden sheets,
paint brushing the bodies against one another,
making a traverse of their love,
art in their organs,
pastels in their passion.