some parts of me are free, and those parts are necessarily dark
i mean it. no light originates from inside my head. only from the outside. i need light to make sense. in my guts, darkness. i like it.
i get to thinking about creation; how pitiably hungry we are about it.
my free parts cannot be read by anyone but me
do not be threatened
make no mistake, i like to share
all the things that other people know about each other, all the things that keep us familiar, i like that too
and inside, all the while, i’m routinely writing what cannot be seen
i throw letters out to a black pond
i paddle out in vigorous sentences
i am seasick with words sometimes
i want to harbor something challenging, unbearable
and bring it to light
when it’s done i am relieved; i look down at it
my freedom is full of error, fearful, and always changing.
all the little things that make the big things
happen in blackness
i am from a dark, wet, place
smelling like an animal
all my life, to the gate
that sex stood behind, raving
i waved, nothing but happy to see
though the raving god seemed made by my very own ideas
curious, this god seemed to spawn from my very questions
and the confession was
to know what would i need to be
to call god on
i looked to her…the woman nearest to me
and around that cat’s neck was a wreath in fur
with leaflets spent in all directions
was she mary?
at times she rose, obedient to some reaction
to choke and sputter on white hair, and once again
settle down to recline in splendor
all my life might another story would do better
we had the answer long ago,
when the bed arrived.
harnessed between posts, the heavy sack of feather
made me dizzy that first night up off the ground
and i awakened often.
the ceiling called my attention now, and so close it appeared,
i thought more about my head, and where it went in darkness.
you slept further away,
curiously, willing to crawl farther,
in the morning to touch me.
with all that room, we realized what had always been there,
just waiting, empty,
and our dreams were not what they had been.
can i answer you?
the history of time is the dream.
the other side is full of breath,
this…pulse-music organizes into being,
and so coming out your mother
is emerging packless
to a valley without echo.
one day, having been listening, comes nothing
it entered: of numberless kin
treaded gone the great walk
holding the tape worm within
somewhere, to be believed, is I
limn by collaborators in all that mess
the quotient compressor of the sleeping child fist
the known quantity
naked sighing next this module
which burps in the middle of telling me
through a sequence of laughs
that one day, having become heard,
I don the non-mating plumage
and this name is
a clutch of bubbles
hung to the hairs of a dark burrow
a solid stem
bitten backward to
her soft, cored head
on evenings kicking
in a punctuated two-step;
dancing like her father
spun out of her cocoon
in blood on a yellow afternoon
with several futures always at once
The thought being that all beliefs are formed through negation and that all ideology are similarly effective the idea being that all beliefs are like a single strobe of light the concept being that this set of principles under the guise of certitude, an apparatus, enters ones self splintering into factions the emotional incongruities buried in one mind the myriad embryonic identities waiting to be called upon! and the identity is made then, and made public through ritual and context and contrast, always in opposition, for no theorem is truly inhabitable and this is not dire but rather glorious and naked and tranquil and like a hammock hanging over the bare side of a sculpted mountain
understood by the study of its own effect
the thrown dish in the kitchen
curiously spent, the reflection such the affect
words congeal in raucous ways
it shows them thrust into light, their position
becoming fixed, severed through a critical lens
huddled in fear of finite mass
when hushed by waves
walked backward through dust
curious this suspended plumage wake from
though love crowds in
and through the common pressure
change exposes matter through pleasure