S) K) IN

the skin is a warp,
the skin is chameleon, is cut.

everything comes through the skin:
a surface of depth, layers of traffic seething to get inside.

i am entirely skin, sleeping in nothing but
held up by my cross-strutted bones

as mountains fall to the sea searching for their skin
of snow and stone, retreating glaciers
like gone fashion waiting to be rediscovered
a snip snip here, a pull pull there

like i was poured into it
by mechanics more sophisticated than
any way ive ever walked
never alone never letting the wind in--

i try to look beyond the skin
but need more than my eyes and lenses
if i could be naked
without attracting so much attention
invisible. with 360 degree vistas
inputting holographically
demand an explanation
a possible fusion-quilt
bubbling from inside my skin
flexibility never asked about
threatening to redefine

never the same sand storm
rain we could count between our toes
everyone learns to get through an indigenous environment
that seems impassable to others
like driving my car through a thousand fabric bodies
i am the shuttle and the warp
collisions are how we texture, how we sympathize
with uneven distribution
when the rain stops to think
without examining its balances and investments

when street names were embryonic
sudden shift in solidity
to dance with the orchids growing up either side
soft drooling pink hands
intending to categorize, to mathematically target
voices patient as rivulets

a measure of tears defines a lifespan

when the skin finally slips free of attachments
with an address book hidden decades in the toilet top
water as spontaneous as automated bugles
wanting the earth to know we’re planning to ascend
through sparks and thickened air,
muscles learning to stop millimeters from contact--
we can hover when we walk
waiting for the earth to spin beneath us, as any globe
controlled by thousands of sticks, balls and mice
for silent frictionless travels always leads to screaming
til youre convinced this transport was a dream
unable to sleep standing up and unable to fall down

i check my faces inflation and tread depth
then im back on the road
prostrating my way along the interstate
semis vengeful gods
i glide just beneath their momentum,
the collected grit secretions and fallen skin of travel
laminating me to vibrate as i slide
compressing acres my fist absorbs these distant remembered months
when snow hibernates in ridges of my veins
transmuting the detritus of dreams spun by spider satellites
adapting each skin to its frequency
like the symphonic sails of errol flynns galleon
driving the shadows of angels, valkyries, faeries and garuda
to give up our flesh for feathers, to trade our knees for altitude
waking buried beneath hundreds of blankets edited smooth by light

i am a bear trying to rub the honey from inside the tree inside my spine
joining with the flight of thousands through the expectant acres of billions
each meadow its own earth
culled by every possible visitor
like an entire city turned into an estate sale
and we don’t know where the residents went

my body freed of its simple electricity to tap a larger net
the way a tangle of strings becomes a jumpsuit with ambient openings
conceptualizing a sleeve the way others would a pancreas
or the secret bank account in a 200 year old sturgeon
whose skin is everything the water forgot
tapping the ground like a dough covered drum
til the entreaties spark a hidden spring
burning through this january april
when all i’ve left to trade is my skin