i feel like it's the end of the
 world &you are waving at me silently
 mouthing a goodbye.
 &i can't hear you so well over the 
 gushing wind, because it is 
 gnawing at my inside, scraping
 my last memories of you
 away. 
 &you blur my eyes like how a summer
 dies
 &you are the moon sleeping in
 my arms
 &you twist my lips into a smile when
 the rain is pouring down so hard
 the child inside of me...

i'm a symphonist, a future history chapter breathing &alive

the crowd trembles before me
   children&parents&lovers&gods are afraid

my fingers dance over the ivory that i sculp into my world

      in the languid summer afternoon my music blows the wind away;
      makes the crickets sound like gold tinkling on hot asphalt&
      drinks your savoury admiration and praise

you are weeping as my first notes waltz into your ears&
it's a joy...

i struggle to correlate my being with this physical world,
unsure of how warmth feels between the voices in my head,
how scraping my knee affects my wellbeing.
its difficult to string my thoughts together
with what's in front of me, to believe that when i speak,
the voice echoing belongs to this very body,
and i wonder: how do i fit into this endless expanse
that we call eternal life.

1
A tall man with a short temper builds himself a sanctuary
Out of sweet gums and summer dirt.

He calls it ‘Golden Hour’.

In June, the cotton fields settle into the hour like a Nun into prayer. 
And both the birdcalls and the snail trails drag across the pink sky.

Pollen stuck to his thighs, the man feels 
Something unnamable growing in his chest; 

Something that sounds like poetry.

2
An old woman in a new coat doesn’t know ...

  "Hey kid, he said, "why is your head hanging so low?
   Why is it that you don't seem to smile any more?
   Can't you see that rain's a lovely thing?
   Don't you know that every life has it's Novembers?"

From her sighing lips she replied,

 "I just can't be happy with who I am.
   Why is it that everyone else has such charm?
   Must I always be the one who sits alone?
   And I...

Sweaty days came with us chasing the wind
until the bares of our feet became black
with dirt and stolen pavement.  

We'd kiss our lips to the skin of fat fruits,
impure deeds matched with full bellies and 
naked bushes. 

Then we'd sing around the lemon tree-
the pears and figs alike would shrivel in neglect.
Reminiscing when Nonna was wed in a white dress 
under the yellow blanket of zest. 

We'd let the Sun swallow us whole as we...

1
A tall man with a short temper builds himself a sanctuary
Out of sweet gums and summer dirt.

He calls it ‘Golden Hour’.

In June, the cotton fields settle into the hour like a Nun into prayer. 
And both the birdcalls and the snail trails drag across the pink sky.

Pollen stuck to his thighs, the man feels 
Something unnamable growing in his chest; 

Something that sounds like poetry.

2
An old woman in a new coat doesn’t know ...

  "Hey kid, he said, "why is your head hanging so low?
   Why is it that you don't seem to smile any more?
   Can't you see that rain's a lovely thing?
   Don't you know that every life has it's Novembers?"

From her sighing lips she replied,

 "I just can't be happy with who I am.
   Why is it that everyone else has such charm?
   Must I always be the one who sits alone?
   And I...

Sweaty days came with us chasing the wind
until the bares of our feet became black
with dirt and stolen pavement.  

We'd kiss our lips to the skin of fat fruits,
impure deeds matched with full bellies and 
naked bushes. 

Then we'd sing around the lemon tree-
the pears and figs alike would shrivel in neglect.
Reminiscing when Nonna was wed in a white dress 
under the yellow blanket of zest. 

We'd let the Sun swallow us whole as we...

TW: bleeding cut, a guy’s nose crunches
11
“ELLIE! ELLIE! COME HERE!”
“I’m coming! I’m coming; what is it?!” I shout, racing in the direction of Anna’s shrieks. I skid into the bathroom to see her trying to shake a band-aid off of the tip of her thumb.
“It won’t come off!” she cries. I sigh and move to help her.
“I thought something was really wrong! Don’t do that,” I scold, gently taking it off and wrapping it around...

Close your eyes.
Gently.

Breath as slowly as you can. 
You are free from pressure.
Free from stress.
Youre troubles are gone for the night.

I want you to bend the darkness in your eyes.

Swirl it around you until the colours become a place.

A happy one. 
Is there a body of water there?
Almost always there is.
If there is water, Imagine the waves.
Their crushing sounds.
The cool water so nicey under their feet.

And if there...

Somewhere southwest smothered in dry heat,
there is a Navajo woman whose
hair is braided between age-old tales, whose
hands are tough as leather, calloused  
from the days she spends calling out
to the sky. But her throat is a cotton field,
it yearns for the cold kiss 
of running water, her stomach pleads
for a drink untouched by Uranium.
She is already sick, has been since the moment
Americans poisoned each native well
with ore-mined chemicals and
fabricated...