i guess the fallen

must have molded this path

not matter which direction they

 touched the dirt in

the fallen

 have formed

this path.

and i wonder how close i am to the ground.

at some point, we stop.

the gradient hits the floor on its x axis

we look up to the pair of scissors in the sky

 and kneel

some rocket overcomes us and

empties our pockets

lose connections with the radio

transmissions

they were only made by man

and we

 then see

 unflinchingly staring, fuck lockjaw

mouths and marrow gaping

and gulping at the liquid

into the ashes of the sun

and in the meantime

our former

hits the road

heads out of town

and becomes

what it belongs to

but everyone

weeps.

a bullet’s a shame

no purpose for use

 and no honor

no lamplight to lead the way

it used to be,

you had to have a chance to

see the

outlined with tears and exclaiming eyes

used to have to come close to who

you turned to smoke

feel their limp, smell their perfume

acknowledge the sin and imminent doom

it used to

 make people thing a little more

 consider who their heroes would murder

 in war

but a bullet’s a shame

 and a sham

making it’s demands

extending it’s hand.

it was

some cave of consciousness

some breeze of bathwater and fumes

to match

when i strike a match

it had

 existed in some solitude

some outlier on the great plane

a magnet of malice all

 it’s own

it did

decay with all other creatures

revolve in repentance and rigor mortise

move only as much as it was made

to

experience every expletive

in mind

but now

it’s gone.

there was a content distraction

buzzers blossoming on the screen

when all the double jointed eye sockets had been

covered in foil no sense of

anything but the soliloquies they spoke to themselves in the mirror

the only highways they’d come in contact with lay on their ribs

they traced the stop signs with serrated bread knives

stop.

kissed their reflections an accosted their creators

for the pit they had dug themselves into

in the oily sands

now only the tar and no touch graced the lines of their hands.

stop.

and all that was left was the sweet smelling tall grown stem of the screen

that connected them to what they refused to step into

but had sworn they had seen.

he keeps falling in love

can’t quite live it in the river

never did make a catch

he was taught to worry in a different way

cover it with rhinestones and

equations to see us from above

no one minds and

no one breaks his ebb and flow

when the tough tides come.

there was once a prince made of porcelain

fine tooth comb couldn’t take what made him tick

and he walked through the slums

in his sandals

gave any wealth he had to those

who the  king had wasted

went to the prettiest places

he knew

and left no traces of

any damage that could have been done

and all of the girls were in love

one came up, got a good look at said “good-lookin!”

but on accident

 as she leaned in to kiss him cause she was lonely

she shattered him to smithereens

looked down and saw only flecks of pigment and flakes of what was

not a heart was to be found

and a little girl never read a sadder story.

in a cocoon i can feel the broken blossom of my burnt out heart

the urge i have to cradle constellations in landmasses

eats like a king at some state-funded feast

thumping in the burn pile i keep

keep seeing this side swept sideways vulgarity and i remember when i sighed

form chewing on me like candy at the store

 and the brutality of the blank walls blabbering on grasping my thoughts and my attention span

keep staring at barbed wire hair or like the sponges to erase thins off dishes food we didn’t have a chance to taste.

and i still lay in my cocoon now

keep trying to erase words

made when i puffed out couldn’t or can’t speak or it all sounds too familiar

burnt out heart keeps thumping

someone smiles and says “there there,”

but i haven’t been freed to drift on the astral plane so

 all the noise outside is

 as corrupted as i.

you know, concrete is only so bitter to soft feet

knocking blank slabs together

letter the chain gang come in that

man made malevolent rock feels so

softer and sweeter like that gum drop i was fed as a sign of affection

when those dents and pebbles align

but we, doing things the best way we can see,

went to buy coffee and i noticed

the hellish holiness in the palms of his hands

they were scarred from ash like mine

 i guess you could say

 we canonized ourselves

from whatever possibility we created

under the boisterous banality of

the rainclouds about to burst with lightning pretending they were frightening

looking down at us like a God come to punish

but we had run out of things to do so

we wasted ourselves with cigarettes and polishing our pistols

i told him how i was losing a war

it was nice that he was the only person who could see me

as some fighting general blazing bullets by my body

emblazoned in some sharp reflective buttons whose imperfections danced passion to battle cries

and those man made markers of malevolence like the

madman-made rock i am

covered up my scars

but

 of course, when he sees me this way

he undoes my buttons and pulls the old cigarette burns out of the closet

pastes them back on

covers it in the remnants of the ashtray

after this, he undoes my uniform and

of course the hellish holiness in the palms of his hands mix with melted rubber they stretch out as wide as my mind can make out

he hopes to heal the scars erase the blotches of skin that look like weeping stars

and i wonder if he can.