vessels: four jisei


waves, someday

                                       descend on eyes

break like eggs

                                      with enough time

for this existing

                                      is only an eggcup

a clotted shell

                                         losing its white

gobbles up

                                   cornsilk and brides

nursery fragments

                                       the messwork of

off-white ceramics

                                          broken to know

generations of moss

                                      like a child knows

pink and growing aches

                                               for this body

is endemic to hours,

                                patchwork of clotted

flesh and dough, I

                                                     fall apart

at the oddest touch

                                         the palest wave

fell on my bones

                                        outwards, finally

milled them talc

                                                  I'll truly be

salt, someday

                                  calcium, residue of

waves, someday



egg-crack, the bite / of sound, chalk as / bright and / milk as if sudden / petals on linoleum / fell like the twenty-eighth floor jump / of an idiot in ecstasy / like I was / an altitude, / wasn't even expecting / being numb for air, / for shattered carnation, a sweet spill over the lip / introducing skull to the nature of cement / too early / snow too perfectly shaped for / gorgeous hurt, a plunge / bleachness of youth / twenty-eight stories of my youth, / all the unfallen flesh / until now I have held out like hope over a taught spinal shutters / falling / whitely, laughing / fastly, lately, / I have been a gust of love / a birdsong in creases / a paraffin of birthday cakes / frosting the floor as / inevitably, only ever one pack of candles / I have been / lit, enduring shimmer / in a stray oilslick puddle / I have been jumping / like silver carp / devotion to air has meant gulping for air / attending to the plastic and glass / I only now prefer / the idiocy of unending, the sound / of rushing / air through the hours of / frozenness standing on a knee-scrape of sky, / numb as air / and proclaiming all life / the sound of / the egg-crack, the bite.


           now I lose.

           my wit.

           and shape.

           for undulations.


           brain forms.

           waves, neurons.



           only becoming halfbirds.


           fly into grey matter.

           hours, curdle.

           churn and unglue, I.

           commend them.

           unto unloveliness, unto.


           unto white, a cushion.

           until one day.

           the bloated dullness ends.

           wings, snapped old and shut like a smile.


           hope, but for ending.

           intact but for a padded cell.

           expired like eggs.

           in a carton, in a moment then.

           I become a.


           of myself, sober.

           pathology of intotality.

           and unbecoming.

           god, I feel.



you are fragility.
you are a shower curtain that rents the clean from the unclean and

    carves two shut eyes.
you are set on the bathroom floor in an asterisk of teeth and 

    snapped swallows.
you are floating in a curtled ponddepth of yourself.
you are trying to pick yourself up again and I don't think you'll

    be able to, because


you are bent like a wrist for arthritic seat-cover.
you are eaten by decades and echoed in a dry heave.
you are dizzied, to be again a spectre in becoming.
you are a callousness of retching curtled atmosphere:
   as if ejecting the purity of a cockcrow could even prove the grace of littleness.


you are mouth to mouth on a wave of sick.
you are the perfect acoustic of a toilet bowl.
you are a cheesecloth lay-in, cured and pressed around the 

     torso that's left to youat the end.
you are dumb and whittled to the perfect chalk-width of a 

you are the ash on your knees from all the tile floors and meals 

     of uneaten soot.


you are ashy on your knees like all orphans.
you are a caulking of tears calicified.
you are the white of a soft-boiled egg.
you are never to taste yellow.
you are two fingers glued like a scout salute.
you are a final salute rinsed under 8 degrees of water 

     right from the faucet.


you are the dryness of handtowel after.
you are always an inch from finding marine snow, finespun out 

    of your guts.
you are to know the vague promise of finality in flecks of melting at the end of  
   your tongue.
you are the measure of love when you leave in a backthroat of 

    whey and bleach.


you are hot red on the edge of love and whiteness.
you are veinwork of years bleeding into the abyss of an s-curve.
you are leftovers of the impossibility of a soul after an 

     adulthood of hunger.
you are testament to the ultimate truth of throatlight,

including that life is a suffusion of things not meant to pass 

     back between your