Pen Hole Lungs

There is a tension like a film that builds up on my lungs

In a fire to express crevices of being to burn on the page

Speaking rarely accessible writing-substitutes unavailable skin to touch, to get it out

Want smashed into ink smeared like a tongue bedding in a masochistic love

Bartering for the punishment of pushing the hollow clear

For the dog pile to refill with limbs and noses sniffing assholes

Wandering for hopefulness

And this dead thing hacks in the bronchi for a wizened man

To be looked at straight in his eyes for permission to blow his head away

Like an exploded mosquito thinking of the labyrinths he cannot escape

The visions of flower beds and birds pecking away for fallow seeds

The dead winter of the wanting, the gray solstice of hope fizzling

The horizon of a hunchback and church bells, ropes and curved necks

A gypsy dancer and whiskey feels like excuses filling up air bags with pneumonia

To breathe possibility in a fool’s errand awarded with a pork pie hat to skank alone

In the squares of St. Claude Avenue

Oxygen is overdue and the flood is inculcating coverts

To just give up in how high the grass is overgrown

The series of ignominious transitions of feeling so un-mourned

To have no debate, no second thought on the other end of the see saw

Just slumps of naught piled in this end of the pendulum weighty and clogged

Wanting ventilation stabling my chest for a subway tunnel to the surface

Using an ink pen and a yogi palm gone native

Knowing going into it this is just how it will end in the ache

That the steps one takes to substantiate destroy the foundation

Because every effort a man makes communicates weakness

If one cares the other should not because better is possible as the unattainable is sacrosanct

Just the human way, to want what does not want us like a child sniffing for god