Thursday, February 19, 2015

at a ceremony that is alone: something hot, maybe
fresh wax drying on the skin

that too is alone. if this was your own,
it would feel counterfeit.

we may simplify, deeming meaning
to haven't even itself. negate it all, even that patchwork
of the periodic table of elements
with its chilly, uninviting regality.

it eats and eats its children like a bottomless pit
as they are born until only zero is left. try the disinfectant:

zero isn't a number. rather, it's something
veiled- an ossified, blank-faced artifact,
keeping secrets and taking them to the grave.

take only from this rocky giver of the dirt.
it knows us all,

dreaming our dreamless sleep. in determination
of the brain's activity, one spike follows another,
this is inevitable.
they are cold. they are steel.

they offer verbal cues to an otherwise pallid lip.

void is the gate between this sty
and another one, soon i'll know what it appears as.
i'm piecing it together, exacting black, uncouth

and very long feathers- they keep turning out
to have been born into a pre-existing pursuit of discovery.

i pluck plums from my eyes off their branches, reaching out
and i offer them. there is an expectant hand.

"where are you taking me?" i ask sleepily to someone whose hand it is.

wherever the young say to, replies he.