Of spirals

Ethereal cloth
Folded by flame
The scent of spirals
in my throat

Manic space

That manic space
between waking
and dream
where the laughter
laughs on at itself
and the chatter
is caught
in its own
kind of meaning
sense existing
for only
this moment’s

Sometimes I don’t

Sometimes I don’t wash for days
The written word I’m working on
cleanses deeper than water touches

Sometimes I don’t eat even
though my stomach cries
I am sustained with the fullness
of expression unrestrained

Sometimes I don’t sleep even
as my eyelids are sullen children
The lightness of my pen flies to
tuck poetic progeny in right

Word forms

I write because
I can’t not
It froths and forms inside
Descending from massive multitudes
gives birth to subjectivity
that speaks in many tongues

Drink of these words
digesting all your own
Do they fill you up
in ways you couldn’t say,
sample tastes you
didn’t know?
Do they sicken you with
raw truths, painful bitterness
saccharine nonsense zen?

I have cut them from myself
but they are part of you
Rising from silent solitude
to scream a universal tune

Sometimes I feel like I’m coming apart

Sometimes I feel like I’m coming apart
Where is the line between creativity and madness?
Is it the line at the hospital, pharmacy,
farmed out diagnoses and uniqueness unseen?
Is it the line, the lines on the pages, scatter-herded
to sketches and verses inverse?

Sometimes I feel like I’m coming apart,
and I’m coming apart as it swarm swells inside me
I’m shaking and searching for possible valves,
a vessel, a verily verbose machine
my fingers ten pens, my toes turning pages,
my mouth and my eyes twist tales regaling
the feelings, the thoughts, as my body
contorts in supporting the scene

Sometimes I feel like I’m coming apart,
there is still not enough and it itches inside me
ideas pushing out of my skin as I’m blinded
the need to release increases to a peak and
I’m weakened to breaking by things inside inspiring,
I pick up the pen as I pick up the pace and somewhere
I’m nowhere inside of this place where words
squirm-tear right through me and are born on the page

I am coming apart and I’m writing it down,
hands fingers can’t write nearly anywhere fast
and I’m missing huge chunks from the things I’m
told that won’t last, I’m sorry I am such
a body bound scribe, I’d change if you found other
viable options, but for now we are just describing
these visible visions, ascribed so to
one with such relivable limits

I am coming apart, though parts forever I was,
and I struggle to hold all these parts together, the
versions of me blur like light trails or loading, the
seeing and being not really in sync, the bodies, the
slices, the 4d possible courses, the corpses of past
wisping ghost clouds of future, looking through end
to end and fall into yourself

I am coming apart and when I’m closing my eyes,
I’m no longer a part but everything in one, no
thoughts here, no thoughts here, just being and being,
and been and becoming and but never was, every and no
thing sweet sides of the same, an ache emptiness beauty
creating different insane.