obstructed state

Let’s read the moon digest:

History of human feces held in an animal mouth

Decapitated by the day after day.

There are pains in the feet and gut akin

Only to their source, carbohydrates milled

Under the intense pressure of a single entity.

The wealth of suffering is tapped,

And only a belief in its sanctity

Keeps me from swallowing the key

That can shut the door.

Willful and strong she blows,

Riding atop with my dick in her hands.

She licks her fingers and bows.

The thing carrying our shit yawns

Like the ocean.

Have you ever looked out to only blue?

That is where I find myself these days.

If it is single bolt action you want,

Paint it over with blood. You can take a few days

Off without worrying if you can afford the revolution.

Spring grows inside the season we are in.

It is like the future blooming inside the quiet past.

Like the flower in the tree trunk,

Like the churning eddies of flesh gasping and grabbing each other

And finally coming together 10 feet off the road

By the maintenance station for the gas lines.

These days the sky goes grey early

And if the warmth touches our skin,

We find ourselves inside, at work, with too much to do.

These days the nights rise late,

A dull hum barely making it out of the smog of evening.

These days I am grabbing at my back, pulling the ink,

Stretching the maple where my heart grows,

But it is not my hand at all, but yours,

And I am suddenly aware you are looking at me,

I mean really looking.

The sides of my charger are burnt plastic

From where I fell asleep on the electicity.

My thermal sheets are old and tearing,

And they were not enough, anyway.

Any hope of distraction is two hours away

And tomorrow I must tell my therapist I spent another

Week drinking and not an hour meditating.

Here we go with eugene oneil on the Sabbath.

I am sitting with lube that terrifies me in my hands,

Staring at an empty jar of peanuts and a set of dirty whiskey glasses

In front of a dirty wine glass in front of a dirty beer glass in front of a picture

Of my grandparents at 25 that hides the dying jade.

After my shift ends, my shift begins.

I am not getting off alone.

I do not need it to be clean.

We haven’t a clue where we begin.

Let’s hang our shit out to dry—all the politics

And non-politic. All the great poetry of us, damp

In the wind, cold. Let’s stand inside looking at it,

Nude next to each other, strong in the limbs,

Breathing too heavy to be silent, hands touching.