i have this recurring dream of vampires flying through the windy night and i'm one of them but i run or rather fly away. we generally begin in some dim grassy plane and im waiting for you to come where you said to come only the werewolves and the banshees get there first and i chase the instinct to run. i make it home to my beloved and find myself asleep beside his tiny six-year old head as a door slams and my mother's voice echoes through the hall: you forgot to lock the doors, get out of bed. but no one's really home and i wake and light the hall, to calm my fears of dreams crossing over and the living--undead.

an untimely joke

It begins: Pretending to ignore each other from a short distance, as the radio signals direct their crash. At a disjunction in the ships course when the control panels clear, defining, wavelengths gain white noise tying up all her guiding lines: Laila looks out across the water and finally sees. Her friend holds--upon his deck, the dictionary for all of the painted music inside her headphones; up on her halls walls. (After the crash, Ozlo never spoke of what he'd seen.) They cordially wave in assumed passing--too drunk to realize their crashing, as verse soak sink and rip the tide in undulating outlines of parchment currents. The crew is casting, collecting nameless wreckage of variegated editorials, fiction and poetry. Hanging all to dry--as some search for their righteous order while others drive it. What else to do when knowledge of The End. doesn’t line-up at a start? As men thrown overboard wave at the sleeping lifeguards on shore, the hosting angels trying screams--mistaken for the hungering flight of gulls… and god’s hands only make waves around here.

the air is much thinner up there

i know all regards toward romeo and fair juliet. the raw
hatred--between lord montague and lady capulet. i know all
of the stripes slashed across thy back, tied to weeping
willows in fettered flesh. mind’s banished. split. cast silver.
fish. into thistled net.

sanguine. black.

cat’s. crossing paths. I know the bizarre
tor of the triangle--and its hollow bases. of cleated climbs up
on familiar faces. the final plateau. the push. her fall
in the sound of viscous air sealing itself ‘round in protest of
pivotal
mountaintop
views. sealing itself ‘round the scene of i fall
owing for u.