All My Arms

I feel the question of emptiness,
as I clutch contempt
for those that don’t know what they have.

Even if it is grey,
or gone.
I carry myself, small,
singing pig-bone cellos
about why
purple will make me happy—
sixteen avenues,
all directions—
drawn and quartered.

My self-awareness is a sin,
my self-awareness is an automatic bone
in the throat of something on the verge
of being something cold and beautiful.

If I knew what to expect,
I could catch it
in all of my arms.

But the mystery is heavier
than the weight of not knowing what I have.

Imagine me,
taught by tragedy.
poetry is pornography for the soul.

If I can lift my eyes
to the sky,
lift all my arms
to the ground.

Vanity leaves you sleepless;
it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy
to an otherwise undetermined life.