Bleeding Roots.

My opening eyes blink away

the acidic pockets of space and time,

the vastness of bleach, the tectonic folds,

cracked in wealth through the mountainous ridges of soul.

I am laced in stillness through the moving air of night.

Until   

Concrete meets the proxy earth.

His frame, his shadow,

fluorescence, lava.

My eyes, the stars.

A galaxy alarm confirms my suspicion.

Channeled magma chases my breath, my aspirations,

It leashes my freedom to infidelity.

My heart is erupting, anxious,

pounding against the hells that so presently enslave it.

It hounds and counters the bricks, the mortar, the cement,

the undulations of the door spring,

tables shaken to Sunday.

oh for

the pulse that

my vulnerable

heart

is crawling

into silence

Until

Light's beckoning hands, awakening me

Silenced, eliminated, the anti-moon

In my rude, emergent night

The heir of dawn 
rises into my earth-swim,

I tread the dirt

As my cells, my blood

my heartbeat of twigs-

the bleeding earth, her bleeding roots.

The remains in my pool are filth,

filth, in this scar

the pistons churning and grinding for

my potent prison tattoo:

those shoes, that damn plastic mattress,

window paint, our dead tree,

all shrieking

proclaiming the sirens and echoes

into the conquered sky

the stars, a debutante of vagabonds and thieves.

The siren camps in the divots of my every sense-

And memory meets tattoos of agonies in unconsciousness:

nuance, fluency, stairs, tables,

blood, stars,

earth.

So I count the cracks on the sidewalk,

I count the tectonic folds of my soul.

And gape for my bleeding and slipping roots.

Magma blinds me again

and the stars are gone.

With blood on my hands

I understand so little.

-CB, 7/6/13