one flesh some recipe to stoke hunger to cannibalize myself good, i am cracking myself; at low tide, at high tide, i look at the stars and wonder what, as the surf begins to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, i feel low, and i feel alone. bright, orbs of shifting gases, dumb, fat and vapid, belching hot air, glazing indecision; well what have you done with my childhood dreams? is this vessel, screaming empty, a milk cup or a chalice for wine? the sea boils with anger, and seasons with salt the purposeless anonymity of unused clay. sinking futility, why am be born with wings and forbidden to fly? why be gifted a stinger to never sting? why be the tension and not the two extremes? why a bee to never taste the honey of which it dreamed? i think i was born a clock and given hands to watch the time go by. sinking dutifully, what can we celebrate in our brief and fleeting lives, how much of me, and how much of you? We are insects stuck in our skin. We ...