Opening and closing portals score:
Find a portal.
Open it up.
Step inside.
Pose a little.
Step outside.
Close it up.
Seal it good.
Repeat.

Delicate fortitude
Sadness piling up
Pyramids
Rage

Kindred botanicals
All alone on Easter
Consumption and the smell of me
Language
Rage

I ran out of tremors:
justifications.
Your alibis:
fascism, numerology.

Coincidence - solar plexus - lipstick - dirt.
Going away then coming back - lipstick - dirt.

Trainwrecks as blessings.
Unbecoming me.

Lakeshores bring me lakeshores.

Hours rain.
The barn - the buds - the rocks - the car - the cows - the ghosts - gone away - all the way - god is:
hard.

Falling asleep while praying:
former lover,
salvage me…​

The sudden awakening of new conjugations - configurations - dirt.

Slackline - gold thread - beside you - beyond me - beneath.

Lantern light to illuminate:
camping equipment, cave dwelling ants and crystals, my beloved’s face.

What to call a place as it starts sinking.
And once it has sunk?

My father’s body is so unreal.

A cosmology of storm clouds.

Guilt.

She pounded at his golden triangle with her dull pointed spear. At last, something (somewhere) clicked, and from within the center of their beingness spewed a silky white beam which rose into the air…​
…​then fragmented into a shower of a million jewel-like droplets. A most pristine droplet fell gracefully upon the center-point of each partner’s brow.

Tears - torn fabric.

A smell - a scent.

Last night I prayed
that three poems would come to me in sleep.
In the middle of the night, I awoke—as I do—
to the phrase: “gay asian prayers,”
and I thought: this will be the title of my book.

I started turning over lines while half asleep,
but I knew that they were trash so didn’t bother
turning on a light to write them down, and in the
morning I remembered: gay asian prayers,
and wrote down in my notebook:

with my full name underneath it,
and drew a rectangle around the whole thing
so I’d remember it’s a book.

Then I wrote down two lines; the first was:
gay ass paradise, the next was:
gay asian pears. Then I thought of nothing
for a while, waiting for another line to come,
and when it did it was:
Gabriel Azriel Percival; and I knew that Gabriel
and Azriel were angels but forgot if Percival was one,
so I googled it, and he’s not;
he’s just one of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table.

                     the weight of a child in this world
         seems unbearable for several reasons
           the least being our current situation
             the greatest being climate chaos
                                             but in between
      there’s the next one hundred years
 & I feel like planting flowers in a circle
    in the spring & this will be my home
               where friends will bring me food
                     & things to build a shelter with
                                   & it will be an art piece &
          a poem to all the mothers of this world
& I can’t promise that I’ll stay inside the circle
                  but the point is: the earth is living
                                                            you are it
                                            & life is good &
                                         keeps on going
            & finds a way no matter what
                              until the world ends
                                from an asteroid
                        but that’s not even it
                             because in truth
                           you’re not a body
                               you’re a crystal
                              made of stardust
                & the sun’s a living creature
  & she’ll take care of every crystal baby
                even when the earth is shot