silent as a dishrag, weathered with waiting
i’m finally done with desire. it’s so damned
predictable. i need something newer, more violent
than lust or too many shoes.

i want to make an art project of life.

cut it up, paste it onto the thick of my soul.
smell the blood of my paint. find scraps of salvation
in tree-bark and ocean-glass. tie threads of hope to
stars, razorblades and someone else’s eyes.