“nothing that comes from you, anyway”

stand amongst, bare thought,
honest.        it’s all you’ve got,
rainfall, thunder, giants.  guide,
bring us – yourself – to edges,
yours, jagged little tears.   learn
the precision of them, run hand
along the frills and cuts, then,
then you’ve a map, and nothing
on the road can surprise you.

 

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“it’s late”

we’re all old gods
if that meant something,
we’re all points, scratching
wrists to jigsaw piece
conversations. bright light
of midnight phone text app
thoughts that mean something,
books on broken pagan statues
and unhelpful narratives and
mostly blank notebooks, at least
half, can’t write on the left it’s
wrong                        i wonder
if gods have panic attacks.

“more darkening, three gods”

you behead statues
because you are
compelled, by your
dogma, or by theirs.

don’t pause and think
about the craft, the marble
made to flow like robes,
the faces and hands
you grind to rubble
for offerings more your
style.

now they’re in the museum,
ripped from their home.
i should remember that
when i see them, instead
of forgetting all but rough
hewn necks and three gods.