I'll fuck it up, probably on purpose.
Murders will happen because of me
but I'll never be there. This
is the paranoid eye that searches
only for a certain frog.
This is our earthly home,
that leaks and screams.
I am absent from the rituals
of birth and death, my attention
is elsewhere. The obsessive
carving of reality must take place.
The gift I don't deserve
must be shredded into
shimmering fragments.
Man must survive on the salt
of dead ideas. This skin
is a kind of armor I put on,
and it doesn't work.
This cactus tongue
is milky as a neon pen.
The frame falls off
from the jagged landscape.
I am aligned with the dying god,
with the ones of this world.
There is no other seeking.
Luminescent curlicues unfurl
on a cold horizon.
They are not straight, they tremble
like frozen lashes.
The way the blankets heave,
the dome of space has opened up,
a voice without language is calling,
calling.
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