Friday, November 22, 2013


I am turning into a houseplant that watches you.
In the past we are dancing; close your eyes and smell
the soil I grow from. The radiant nowhere, silently
opens up, from the sun on a beer coaster
or a napkin scrawled with alien alphabet,
closer and closer to multiverse, the fibers of our beings
stretched tighter and tighter in the refining blaze of theory.

You are a drumskin whose under-air I live with.
This is the apartment where we plot the smokeless end
of the known world. Genetic material sprayed in laughter
across the flowerets, the sound of many bicycles
passing huge, closed windows. Make me closer to both
death and life, in the music of your refusal to analyze;
root in me behind my hilt, show me the infinity

This coming bloodletting, a history of love-blips,
will not be enough. Things must fall short somewhere,
to keep the steps worthy until the great until.
What is meant for the eye, the ear, the nose,
the other tendrils, is meant in profound ambience,
is meant in the bloodlessness
of closely studied blood.

This is the first door to the house
with the most doors, where a fart waits in denim
laughing kettles to a stove with feet
that print linoleum and forget. Drink your tea
with tumeric and let the ceiling's whir of caged beings
turn into a planetarium helmet over your head.
Soon we will not remember ourselves, much less each other;
soon we will out in the wide tiny,
be feeding ducks who are already done eating.

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