ANTS

i need a
flat point and raise it like a sun.
i don’t care if it will grow into a
polychromatic home, landline phone,
grass stain
on the sole of a kickboxer-clone.
i want a
morning in metathesis with a cardboard
entrance so when it rains,
it pours& immediately
washes away.

else i don't know what to do with this
bright hungry light that tips
from an earth-second into a sun-shot which
continues forever it
could be a hand curving open it could be a
star-particle jumping into the face it could be
perforating the bare rib.

because next come
ten thousand navy battle ships
prowling for the island i will found
on the flipside of the coast with the ants biting
through the sand
&it's shaped like
the dead nerve of the teeth
a grandmother shows you while you sit
waiting on her blue couch.

if i draw it
in her broken
compact blush powder mirror
&feed it to
some smile of sorts
maybe i’ll sort
out finally, how warmth sits in some people’s lips
automatically, like thunder bugs appear before the clouds start hanging
too heavily, and then i will
see, magically, how bad
these things are, these ultimatums i give myself and
why i keep thinking in circles
so acidically,
so idiotically.
maybe i’ll understand
not guess or feel
maybe i will find calmness or peace
or wonder or horizon or months or more
than this one second of a whirr-beat
at a time.