THIS IS WHY WE NEVER DREAM.
You are in—credible.
Having me hanging from your lips.
You are the place where nothing happens,
a shallow grave,
a disingenuous space.
You mistake everything for
tutelary words.
This is why
we never dream.
You taste like morning,
dressed up like
another
part of the day.
You make me
cover over my eyes.

EXPIRE, embolalia, 2011/2012
Rákóczi Avenue, Budapest, 1952. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.
Incredibly rare: Three whitetail bucks locked horns in battle and drowned together in a creek in Ohio.
ABULIA
I see your pockmarks
and I want to follow you.
I exercise restraint,
daily.
I will reuse your eyes,
your tongue, your teeth.
But the words keep calling me
beckoning, a skeletal sense.
Pale liquid will drip from your lips.
stirring me, starving me.
I wait,
frugal with my breath.
But the organs resist,
decompose under fingertips,
twist.
The sound of the murmur,
the sunshine of the ceaseless, the heat;
And if you touch me,
you will find that I am no longer soft.
-embolalia

NOISE, embolalia
I was caught up in
the expanding circle
of your fatigue.
- embolalia, 2022