if there was only one poem to offer

lay your self down already
in the half heart rock island
splitting the creek into two separate paths

lay your suffering‐self down already
lay down your pacifier of critical analysis
and your safety blanket of logic

there is nothing to fix.

lay your weary physical manifestation down
on the rocks already and sink into the discomfort
loosen your hair into the water already
and ease back so that the current can pulse
gently, gently on your scalp

lay down your polysyllabic words already
let your oh‐so‐impressive brain
be cooled already
let the minnows rush in excitedly
to nibble on the strands of your hair

there is nothing to fix

stretch out and dig shamelessly into
the underworld of the creek bed
and flex until the alien, wormy roots
transform into familiar, slick tendrils

put down your logic already
the only logical path past the edge
is in a form that George Boole
never imagined

there is nothing to fucking fix

what if the universal search string
is right here in
the dark inside the dark
what if the universal search string
is right here with
the dark fluttery creatures
floating down from the canopy

Rilke knew …
every angel is terrifying

every angel is terrifying

there is nothing to fix
nothing to resolve
just the voluptuous, bruised flesh of a pear
and dark fluttery things
to kiss