At the interface between earth and mute space, between form and void, is glass.
Escaping, her van is a Wonderland. [Glass Table Girls]
I'm fond of probing myself with dirty computers, in dark closets—
unabashed, looking out for the crack in an already fading image.
To live is to watch myself become the speck that stains / a mirror
that animates the morose into a dystopian fantasy. With each frame,
my nightmares are rolling / stones away from the tomb of sleep,
resurrecting themselves into the present, while I peer through a slit
wrist. Ah, it's the moon peering back from a distance. It appears
I've slashed through the clouds, after all / that friction and blood,
I fall through the looking glass, trying to find myself with a pulse.
Who am I beyond the touch of sapphires, salvation of a screen?
: a usually transparent enclosure for keeping small animals.
In Canaan, we had no lactose in our skins,
we were intolerant to birth — jaundiced,
lacking honey or whatever sweetness
is characteristic of a flower. We withered
just as we bloomed, yawning into nirvana,
stretching vast with the wind. We became
accessory to the sky, winged but shelled
in glass; empty on the inside, we saw
our hearts melt at the touch of the Sol.
Look, we had been seduced into living.
"Breathe, my putti," the Creator had said.
But we could not.
So we danced.
And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven: and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it. [Genesis 28:12 KJV]
The pantomime says moonwalk, but the dead sea peters out of statues
that have run out of body fluids & in turn, can never die again: saints
that will never fight-or-flight again, but will hang in gardens / forever
remaining a dream on the porch of a rocky planet, while astronuts (sic)
ascend & descend the cosmos, searching for a world to nest their tears.
Turn the music up, tune the anxiety down.
This is a happy house 🙂
Lol, it's hard to breathe in here.
"Open the windows," but there aren't any
left in the walls. We're trapped in a house
of balloons; all clogged up on the inside,
thrombotic and numb from the noise / & needles
never deflate our vessels. We're floating:
mushroom clouds & spirits make our hearts race
but an engine dry of fuel can only run
for so long. Hills slope until they rise,
until they end. We delay the truth with
every whiff of clouds, but we know
there is no powder that can tame the fire
in our venter. We know we are burning up,
feverish from the moonlight — burning out
with day / comes scarcity. When there is no fuel,
it is the cells the fire eats. The pipes
of the engine corrode, until
it is a pile of rusted marrow & bones without
carbon-date — not even substance enough
to be reckoned fossils. Memory is so brittle,
so volatile it affords ascension, escaping
the melting pot of our bellies — sublimating;
till it gels with a glass sky & just then,
it all melts.
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