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I love when secret odors pry you naked,
love your lies that keep it sacred.

 TOUCH

 

Phony beasts no longer hide, nor slit their lives in half,
but chew their tales of inner pride, no bones about their past.

Round, paper, ink dream, thing of melted teeth, soft, awake, uncurled, who tells a tale of painted speech where missing soul cannot be found, yet hopes to lick face of master, now asleep.

Moonlit creature, winning trust, prowling home from ancient ways. Kicking memory from the dust, learning songs from eerie haze: trees in shadow have their tongues, rustle time in leafy lungs.

Because the ego claims you back, because astounding facts recall the places craning out-of-bounds, appalling faces on the ground; you rack your brains to write it down.

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