Nicholas Barnes
cosmic filaments are
like Earthly oceans:
not really sleepy streets
but turnpikes, alive,
buzzing with gasses,
hissing with heat,
giving birth to death,
to abyss, bearing ideas
from one of those
supernova flashbulb
aha moments
somewhere in the
back of her head:
gaia; mother;
absolute; yahweh; jesus;
all sing sonar songs
underwater that say
to be made of water,
to be divine, is female:
poseidon then, sinks,
trapped on pages,
in between covers,
but is never forgotten
in this foamy cocoon:
this schmetterling wing,
hoisting mariposa masts,
sends white horses into
mighty roaring formation:
a pangea before,
an archipelago after.
emery bored
I was a nail biter.
Nervous head case.
Sweaty palms.
Airplane takeoff.
Fidgeting.
Scared and fearful.
Now all ten
Are long save
For my left middle.
Torn off during
That 2009 & ‘12
Double feature,
In good company,
When I had nothing
To be afraid of,
Except for resurrecting
Adolescence again.
Reminded of old habits
[That time in the backseat,
Scolded for chomping]
With every sentence
I click and scratch
Via this keyboard
Of letters and digits.
Some think it’s blasphemy:
Wearing muddy shoes
On Persian rugs.
But it’s more like
Drawing yourself,
Connecting the dots
On mole covered arms:
Constellations unseen
To ink-black skies.