In order to have a complete nature
Full of all experiences
God needed to sin
To count it among His powers
So he made you and me
To commit our adulteries
Mature creations doing what God wished
Yet not what He ordered
Because All comes from God
God birthed Himself to forgive Himself
Which is all theological longhand
For this:
I have already forgiven myself
After the fashion of The
Being Who Needed to Know
Just like you, another piece of God, have done
lucent
nicotine dreams,
(the wasp, too, pollinates)
and under honeycombed bridges
i swim,
reflect
upon a moonbeam during day,
and wake only to your
kiss: soft as an
egg yolk
tonight,
you were in an
ache i felt. pinned upon
the ceiling, the top of your head
smelled nice
the train moans like a ghost
and if it’s hauling coal
or cars of people
it’s pushing carbon
there and back
a ghost groans like a train
but do not ask of sonics
or metaphysica, for i am
a humble journalist only telling
what i heard
is it so, so mad
to wire a robot thus?
that it would metronome
a truer beat than people
in the way angels worship more cleanly
the consciousness of the giraffe
is what “looks” at me through black lashes
and not the entire giraffe at once
when i say unto you
the giraffe popped its neck looking moonward
there are more things in head and heaven
than there are in reality
that list in god’s brain always-and-eternally
incomplete of all things-at-once
(it is not so unusual upon waking)
I’ll divine meaning from your insides
And watch which way the birds fly
I’ll put your face under my pillow
And learn about you while I sleep
I’ll wait for lightning to strike a willow
And ask the ashes which tomb to sweep
And when I get my answers
I’ll let you know immediately
in my
mind is a maze.
and in that maze is a
minotaur. and in his mind is
a maze.
and in
that maze is a bad minotaur.
and inside his mind is
the color white.
just white.
Out curls
Serpentine smoke
Into a Byzantine midnight
.
I can’t read these heiroglyphs
I carved for myself on the walls
Of my memory
My fingers pass along the grooves in the stone
But unread and unknown,
I keep a secret from myself
.
My memory holds a door with no handle,
A box with no locks,
A moldy book with wilting pages
And an hourglass with one grain of sand inside
For telling the present moment
.
Since my memory can’t photograph
It paints with watercolor
On a canvas of sand. I can make out
Serpentine smoke curling into a Byzantine lung
.
I can’t read these Arabic numerals.
These envelopes have dried my sandy tongue.
I can’t focus
At this oxygen bar, too many Cheshire cats smiling
At this hookah lounge
At the bottom of the dark, green wine bottle
Of my memory
.
My memory curls out
Like serpentine smoke
Into a Byzantine midnight
exiled,
denamed, unknown,
no longer in the mind
of god, re: obliterated,
a void,
a spanse,
defaced, unlabeled, unmasked, peeled
completely down to the
very center
peel where
the fear
is a clear aether:
cloying, clinging
like trapped vapor pressing
on my heart with twelve oceans
(thoughts: blocks)
then grains of peppery static
then stardust: fuzzy logic
my words blur and buzz
like a numb arm on a neon light
sweat evaporates
from me like a desert mirage –
my brain a red anthill,
my mouth breathing instead of my lungs
“my apologies, i just need one
chronic minute, one brief lifetime
for this to pass over”
the trees’
fingertips dance
like dark green spanish skirts,
like a ripple of millipede
legs: breeze
⨀ 