Bloody Knees

Your eyes slither in moonlight

Swell up to the heavens

And dissipate under the gravity

Of your intransigent mutations.

Almost is more often the case.

Almost is necessary for what follows.


The only questions worth pursuit

Or those with uncertain answers.

I adorn each day a new striation

Is this the way I am to age

Emboldened with strange motifs

And voices that echo before they speak?

Do nightmares penetrate the outer hull

The same as conscious wounds?

Why else would I carry them so long

If the blood was not comparably red?


Who can claim perfection?

Another failure precipitated by inaction

A mannequin would be a more convincing host.

If time permits I might even survive.

It holds that those who hunger

For absolutes are always the first to starve.

I sit here on a filthy curb picking scabs

Butterflies relaying songs of the dead

Through my mutilated knees.