Max B.

Childhood in Shades of Blue and Sun

This morning was the last morning where braids would be suffocated with satin nooses around bunches of Mother-born straw paired with a dress imprinted by flower beds and sun bleached and knees poking out from the cotton hem grass-stained and defiant down to the Mary Janes glistening in the sun with the black leather melting down to little shineless pools as if they were hot tar divets in the polish like matte blisters open to the forces of Summer and her wrath and calluses on soft palms (a parallel) and light beating down stark white rather than gold but less blue than Winter sun only pure brightness exposing blood red if you close your eyes and stare at it and you can feel (alive/breathing) and the world can deck itself in shades of indigo, cyan, etc. while sight is away and the star leaves an absent imprint on the center field devoid of fiery glow and parallel to parallel feet are two lines never crossing at the sweltering white dashes so old in the black-gray sole of the ground that they must have been born there too.


Can I fall back again over and understand to never fall again?

Only in writhing states laid upon cheek upon searing hot breath

can memory deliver agony to be firmly etched in one’s mind

A warning! White dove descends grasping offers of peace in her hands

deliverance towards war is unheard against cries

Secondary voice / Nebenstimme

Always occurring with, subsidiary to the primary

Exertion of power is held with the moment and not the subsequent

How can one hear what has no force? No voice?

Echoes of things written as to be support, not a bridge

Nothing to cross, nothing to stand on

No context in existence for an escape

Leant out the window onto metal slats

A warning! to remember


If the world ended tomorrow, what would you save?

/ little notes on nothings strung like pearls /

sweetness in tiny bits of words / nothing big /

nothing that matters at all / necks curved perfectly

to house a head / hair with warmth leftover from

laying underneath sun / preserved in impressions

like insects trapped in amber / forever / nothing

that usually lasts / laughter acts as sustenance for

these endings.

On the death of a grandfather and the later death of an iteration

Salty little pods in between

Salt-covered little fingers

the TV console reflecting little glimmers

— here and there

Of warm light, bathing us in orange

the red rug becomes maroon

I pop another little pod into my mouth

So many stupid little breaths

— in and inescapably out

This was the first time that

a little dusty asterisk could whisp its way

out of strained lips on the life of the living

— to mourn the otherwise

And to “pass on” meant to run out of air

so to stupid little brains this rendered air

evil and would warrant hesitation before

a peaceful title could be spoken

— whisper and then grow louder

Death would be spoken of many times after

Forever folding; how a piece of paper can be

folded 14 times and somehow reach space

Twice by my own hopelessness

— a consideration

How greedy, how green! To allow

the act of living to be rendered a decision

up to stupid little breaths

— maybe! to live...

Edamame popping out like guilt from little

potholes in the lining of my stomach

Eating away; sulfuric

— doubled over

Where to lose hope when loss is misunderstood?

Ten years ago on scratchy red tufts

Someone did not learn

— someone did not listen

“Burial of A Truth”

Varnish melting in humidity is now giving way to soft scratches in the wood, lithe summer allowing bruises to the psyche like indents in peach skin/beach sand imprinted from shells – encasement – leaving behind traces of itself after it’s been washed away. Maybe some part is still hidden underneath the ground like a time capsule, esse in a bottle, addictive/alcohol, to at least smell it, fan up that fire with a hand, and a mouth to love it. Storytelling with finger-picking and breath, say “one day you should listen to Bob Dylan,” and build around battles with flashlight beams through bush-gaps in the woods. To make oneself a shelter from supple nothing.

To make oneself, and love it like a Montague: spitefully/ruinously/unmanageably… in a damp clearing, cleansing takes place with no drain, and tort floats in cloudy water up to the ankles, dripping with superficiality. Intelligence as an archaeological site, war-torn, spoiled, instances of past activity, conducted humanity and left some behind, fissures running across these state lines. Stopped at the bridge, change is constant/eternal like the fear of death, but never death itself, and the remembrance afterwards. To forget – for joy’s sake – than to accept. Promise to nurture, set aflame the bunches of grass, and  grow a wildfire from wildflowers, creating light. To work oneself a song out of brittle world.