a martry for your science

as you tell ghost stories
i become fiction.

you speak life into worn names
and i find myself transcendental
(i am
the notion of molecules
the taste of water
the embryonic recall
the color of night)

without blink or breath or bleed i believe in that existence
and you, likewise, take faith
(in some overwrought theory)
(in some underread text)
that permits such conviction in absence,
such obsession with the blurred

strange how we should worship the absurdities that haunt us
but earnestly neglect the evident

flesh

with the fidelity of a heretic
embraced by blazing stake
still fuming about orbits and
waves of light

allow me to illusrate the irony of my blog name

i do not pray.
i have not prayed in some time.
but maybe, i'm ready to repent.
hands folded
in a requiem
for all the things that consume you.

cause folks, it's time to let go.
of people who exist.
of people who do not.
of habits we can kick.
of curses we can not.

"let us bow and pray"
let our heads fall to our feet
our every everything prostrate
and demons of our egos and vices
will become banshees of the room
until the heart of error ceases
to beat.

but this is NOT the time for an exorcism.
this is not the time to merely evict and goodbye
kill the night's fixation and neurosis
let no breath of beguilement remain
that we can live.

that we can remember.

that you can be.

the revelation

why has it taken me so long to accept that you're an asshole?

that one with the boy with the words

and in my mind, we are always having an argument out of context. it's rude, really, to passersby, who must catch snippets of scathe after scathe and have no idea what it means. i imagine us firing semantic bullets for little to no reason, inflicting pain for the mere reality that we are humans. and by the end, we find that we have strangled each other to the point of white lights and lives in minutes moments. the inspiration? i burnt the burgers or you lost my book or it was tuesday.

and when i do slip into these "fantasies," i am astounded by man's unexplainable capacity to hurt and be hurt.

Re: A Secular Kiss

a raisin is not a grape.
your eye is not a universe.
and i--
well
i am the absence
of God.

a plea of ignorance

i don't know what i want.
i don't know what i'm capable of.
i don't know what i'm allowed.
i don't know that i can do this anymore.

masochism

whenever i read the right book, catch the right movie, see the right show,
i am plagued by the reality of all the thoughts i'm not having, lives i'm not leading, the places i'm not.

god, i love the arts.