Rusted Ribcage

Etched into the palm of time is a personal clock

ticking off each second

as it happens to pass

with individual volition.

Each finger, screwed back on

leaves the fist as creaky

as the release.

They don’t write much anymore 

but what can be certain

is the night with no moon

is favorable for those

who deny any sort of wrong doing 

in the face of atonement.

Seeking forgiveness 

must be everything 

opposite to selfish.

I do not want to feel better.

I deserve to be

chest deep 

in the manicured muck

of my own making.

I should have a tattoo

composed of January tears

and spring weather.

It will read,

“Love never knows best.”

The heart can pound 

against the walls of my

shale cage,

but it can never break free.

As such,

the hands must act.

As the heart beats blood

into the remorseful limbs,

creaking fingers must grasp

the iron handle of due servitude 

easing, as able,

the weight within 

other cages–

loosen rusted locks,

burn regretful seconds

tock, through to tick

cold as snow, soft as tin.

Advertisements

(Pluto Poems 4) Corona

I don’t want to orbit the sun anymore.

 

Her warmth is poison to me

you see its easier to simply

float alone, frozen than

pick away at the nitrogen ice

 

in hopes that one day

you’ll find the central core of life

that hasn’t been there all along.

 

I am rigid.

Her mere closeness

breaks me.

If I were to crash land into

her Saturday and

stay a few nights with

arms to caress and

cheeks to kiss, then

perhaps learning to swim

in my own chest

wouldn’t be so maddening

 

but there is no Saturday on Pluto.

There are no ponds, no lakes.

Streams or creeks, whispering sweet

lullabies to the moons.

 

I am forged of broken, stiff

glacial indifference.

 

Please, you wretched hydrogen star…

 

My fingers are not even flowers

yet they wish to bloom

along the fields of your

corona.

A Dwarf Fell for the Sun

Yesterday, I closed the space

between the sun and I.

Matter and planets apart, the light

too faint to feel, to taste–

to trust as light at all.

 

I hugged the sun,

the warmth of her filling every vein

making my blood feel

as if it were more than ice, rock.

 

The sun looked me in the eyes,

and I saw Home.

Familiarity

long since buried

in the tresses of my backlogs.

 

You could never know

the skin tone of the sun

like I do.

My eyes

took every opportunity

to devour what they could

before the setting,

before my melting.

 

When one sees the sun from afar,

checks on the sun’s snapchat

browses

old pictures of the sun

that didn’t make you fall long ago–

you at least had the distance to keep you safe.

 

Closing that space is

dangerous, painful,

intoxicating, immeasurably

hot.

 

I used to have other stars

who filled what they could of my skies.

Don’t we all eventually

settle for the light pollution

calling that warmth?

 

My hands had been numb for every orbit

to have them thaw

only emboldened

that long dead need

to touch.

 

I wanted to burn myself.

Give my body to the sun and

entwine myself within her limbs,

get lost in my

Tombagh Regio

as the galaxy charred and

fell down around us.

 

It goes without saying

the sun doesn’t date Pluto.

Though it made the trip,

the purpose was only to finally meet a planet

who, in fact,

did not obsess over the solar flames

falling around the face

of nova

of birth

of the beginning of life.

 

Pluto keeps their distance

shaming itself into not needing heat, when really

it would kill to be Venus.

 

“Pluto would surely be destroyed

if it were closer in the solar system.”

The thing is,

Pluto believed them.

But as the sun drifted away

promises of return on the

lips of God herself,

Pluto had naught to reach for

but his own hands

grasping at the leftovers

Flinching at the re-freezing

of subsurface oceans.

 

They say Pluto experiences

its own unique weather patterns.

That it does not rain.

Today, Pluto looked in the mirror,

phone at 10%,

eyes purple, misty.

 

Today it rained.

Each droplet punctuated

by a slow simmer of thunder

dripping from the shaken dwarf

Pluto, glacially fissured, realized

 

“I’m not even a planet anymore.”

Story-Driven Heartbeat (Poem)

Crashing in between blooms

violet in their separate moons,

we summarize our own ruins

brewing–individual Junes.

 

Heartlace, ebony base.

The strings of your song are withered, yet long.

Beating at tether, minding the nether

entropic veins are sewn.

 

Seen last, along falling light. Cast,

like shadows into melting dusk.

Semblance of weather and, story-driven center–

“leave the fan on blast.”