Creation

There is a certain amount of fear about committing oneself to the art you create. Will all that I have put of myself into this work lessen me? Honesty is not the point, the danger is in a thorough effort, an enervating amount. You never completely recuperate. But you are always dying anyway, why not add what you have to the world? Why is it so hard to accept the paradox that sacrifice will give you life as well? Trepidation. Ambiguity. All we read of Kafka he willed be destroyed, a kind of life I can't yet grasp.

Where Are You?

-for my friend

You are always smashing through glass doors
(soft tissues sliding open, dropping little red teeth),
through store windows, satellite mirrors, empty bottles,
that the events fuse, and the glass splashes
out like weather vanes or planets
spinning where day and night garble
to a star’s light refracting the broken pieces, 
each observable only in echo,
a tidal bore of broken sunrises,
illuminating the expansion of your dust cloud body
as though what shines 
were key to where you are.