That drug-lust dream-space
you reach when you’ve been writing
like running to the point of zen
To the point that the vanishing point
isn’t where the horizon ends--
but the place in your lungs where all horizons blend.
There.
When you’ve been worn fingers to bone
bone to stone stone to sand
and sand? Some primordial ampersand.
Ink under your skin, beeswax in your brain
and all your bones are bone folders aching
to smooth the binding
Stop the unwinding rewinding insiding outsiding.
One mile is the same as one hundred
You could run forever and never surrender
You could fuck up the sun and still not cum
Gun trigger muscles smoke tight means:
GO.
