My-Bowl-O-Salt

Hemisphere:

Makes me live, makes me die,

feeds bullets to the priest’s gun, who silently mourns

mourns for the twin souls,

for intangible spheres

and the immortality of love.

Hemisphere:

of blind cyclops, of one-eyed wrecks,

of silicon and plastic in the horizon.

Process:

rat’s trial,

pigeons,

assassins on the stand

from the blinking that will kill us.

Sphere:

of gullible illusions

and vague allusion,

with no trace or lack of lime

nor salt from the seas,

or water so sweet,

or shit on the headlights,

blinding the beam.

Compendium:

vessel I can’t control,

storm I ain’t aware of,

flood that overlaps the raw-raw

wound that nests in my chest,

but I haven’t borne.

Eyes that jump out,

bulging and lonely,

trains lost,

and gulls sunk at sea

take some pity in my journey.

Salt:

and holy water.

blessed be the smile that makes me look forward.

Sweet:

and constant anachronism,

that wasting my days,

that’s sugah coatin’ my evil.

And sin,

that languishes on the spine,

on the edges of mine,

and the shouts and the lies.

And well,

well enough that she’s watching,

me finish my eye on the canvas

edging away from the bowl...

…and nothing,

won’t stop you from sinking in nothing,

as it keeps growing

and grabbing wave

that chokes in the straights.

And the sea,

that lost my attention,

and forced me into vigil,

during the hours of love.

Hemisphere, of waters strayed,

and the love that won’t stay

on your eyes fixed in rain

and my bowl-o-salt.