Horn to Lips

Elegiac sense, the voice quivering near the clearest pitch touching near to monday hearts, lolling head on the shoulder. A son born late into the light. No more impression gongs sounding, weighing down the air, keeping it close to the mouths. Calling back to a dead line to fall down through that empty-tone pit at the bottom of it all, crawling up into the middle of it imaging the silence in its place like darkness, not void of light, but hoarding the images of everything that can be seen. The quiet where you can hear every sound.



No actual sex, but lots of amoramity. Not a place for dreams. Instead she sits against the railing on the steps of the gazebo in the center of the park. She feels protected by the topiary of a dog behind her. The heat drags her out and maybe she'll sleep on a bench near the fountain tonight, not far from the leafy mutt.



Lingering voices in the sun, awaiting a reason to stand up and walk away from the park in the bright and heat, staring like the lost at boys dressed in the bodies of men coming home from their lives to homes full of steam. Your juice for free. Nothing devoured like the mind dejected. Lost song lyrics locked away, replaced people looking, unheard and unregistered.

A Wave

This is the only wave, breaking with the blood and all its’ substantive nutrients, its calcium deposits and the flecks of oxygen and iron together racing past purple to black, drying beneath the skin, the split open heart of the knuckle, like the faces of wood that you can peel away from one another. It’s terror that you can swallow up hoping it’ll choke down easily enough.

It’ll be forward and together until it strikes the wall to hand itself out as flyers on the street, it separates so easily you’d never even know one side was not near the other anymore. The pain left you and there was only the absoluteness of clenching your fist that helped you feel the pressure inside where all of it was just waiting, storing itself up until you decided to test it out and see if the whole system worked.

You curl up your fist in front of a smooth concrete wall, or brick since their roughness does feel that much better, and you let it fly, without pistoning, without that posturing cock of the arm, just the snap back you should be striving for beyond the surface. You let it run, a bull out of the gates speeding with that willpower to bring your world of flesh and bone through to the other side, or to feel the pieces of it separate and go off where ever they might, to leave you with that broken, silly wave.