Poem: Burdens and Royalties

Written at the Royal Room in Columbia City, Seattle, on 9/2/17, during a performance by Jisun.


Those postures of dynamite and irregular heart beats
Those pulses of the last treacheries discoverable
It is curious the way the aches creak and clone
The realm reeks before a chorus of reeling in dull tones


I nurse community a concept I color iodine
Should have been green in the slurry
Rapid rafts amidst a spent sequence of plains
The beat uproarious and the language is of corrosion


Stop the emboldened tongues of the streetlights
They slip like sandal traction on piss stained carpet
It spawns the rivulets of lost mellow chances
While faux whole horn sections are sectored off


The stripping down of dusted green branches
Imagining the curiosity of destroyed huckleberry
It is the realest realization in the realms
Restorative alikened to a treasured gasp


Stop sputtering the reality of the enlivened
Thus the shape of a liver is a heart of heat
“We heat the heat with our own hotness”
And then languishing in miles of later


It is at the bottom of a dream of a volcano
Innards ornamental and opaque and arranged
The spew of the solitude of an embraced, hidden magma
Or the touch of death and inconceivable combustion


The length of poems is the stuttering of the tongue
The cluttering of the minds is collectivism and condescending annals
I find the fixtures of the room appalling and sternlike
I find myself bleeding without blood, burdened without bones


But when I stare into the stars and starts of the face
The jaws speaking an entire entrance of trance
Open fully pulling us up and through a vorpal process
Jackets and jowls an especially arranged outcome


We taste plants with names we find impossible to remember
We bend our necks into new positions
A listening of the universe radical and radiant
What word repeats and what patterns are born, abort?


What love is this lasting testosterone baking in the grime?
What winding down into the sordid defilement of the status quo?
It bulges and sags in the realm of the blue
It startles and streams like a quest of the rudimentary


How many swipes of an arguably dead-end screen
That leads to the extemporaneous and fully exempt
It is the shouting across a huge, interior vacuum
And the irregular lush locationism among hearthy heathens


Slamming unto and into the salamander
A sneak of a brink of rotation in our guises
While the cats keep slicing specials of skin
And we otherwise keep our necks wrenched, skulls clad