gallow’s breadth, the width of my shoulders
bear beneath them
a coagulated mess. hangs on ropes, swings in breezes,
wishes it could hold
in lines, like the edges of a body, something real.
but piercing itself
seems to be its fate, carried to balance the dread,
a smiling face.
if i could be more than this, i would be tangible,
a stone stitched by
growth. the sodium chloride cliff that holds me here,
built from raining days,
is the edge of awareness. the depths never seem so
quite within reach
as when i must build my moisture into something solid,
leaning over, letting fall
my hope, my lightness, loose now from my body, like
something that once was.
it wishes it had a body, a celestial form, that held
in lines like orbits.
but a concatenation of beliefs is nothing but signals
in a void.
an empiricist geometry would seem to build a platform
with which to measure
distances, but to build a frame to bear this bloody math,
would but have to be solid. silence is a lack, an
non-existence. so, carried to balance the dread, i etch
with lines that would bely geology beneath, something
to rest a body on.
a thrall falling, there are such distances between atoms,
why let the disjunct
beliefs be worth anything? rhetorical is another word for false,
and there are too many
emptinesses to let them mean a thing, do you lie so close,
that your repose
would shadow this galaxy of points? i ask so base a question not
to question you.
this is an assertion of my wish to fly, some line that would
reflect some truth,
some orbit that could give me mass, let me signify some thing
like, honest as
nested as an identification
the angelical sooth
of it all, the occupied space
my bones beneath
if u disagree with the biology
of mind over genital
you stopped following
humanity, a long time ago
let alone my humanity
with you over something you said a few weeks ago,
but I’m nervous that you don’t care
Like you didn’t care then,
that I gave you a reason
If I grant you’re reasoning, will you reason with me?
If I speak will you hollowly take just one step within my words?
How incomplete a ritual we can be
there’s nothing you can do to stop them
as they open the department store
like a fisherman
with a crab
lipsticks cascade - gold and black cases
full of pinks and blue eyeshadow
the sweet juice spills over through the cracks
in their lips as the supermarket’s claimed
the shell changes colour in the water
and the old women have done this so long
they can lift the cooked crab out by hand