Dylan Krieger

no hard line

knife hits at nightfall, key bumps before bed:
why the ruby you gave me turned black w/ forget
as if neither of us had ever been born enough
to claim a monthly stone for weighing down
our ancestors’ ghosts—meanwhile I’m getting
so high somebody asks whether I have a
lazy eye—how else to reply but with a lie?
tell the devil how to buy the next election
hate to break it to you, kid, but this one’s
sans exception: the dead don’t just come
back by bacteriological suggestion but
linger in the embers until the fire single-files
out your billfold into silence, no hard line
left between my heaving titties & your
deviated sinus, no fighting all the thirst
we burst to quench w/ burning leaves &
ancient powdered remedies passed down
passed out from screen to shining screen

headless rain

the sun gargles its daily flareful
of special-needs spray paint

shelters tie-dyed deserter soldiers
inside long-silent grand pianos

in time, when all the planets align
and my pink cud starts to stink just right

the high-wire becomes cosmological
no-no, faux pas of the almost

died variety, eyeballing me seductively
from the far side of the galaxy

nice to know another ghost vibrates
at the same ache, the same superhighway

of headless rain, adorning my sugar body
in vulgar shades of vandalize & snowmelt assassinate