thesquareroot

  prescient tracts of flesh – and we climb the human mountain inch by inch through covenants of myth and stochastic redox reactions while an ossature of stars observes our every ache and urge precambrian at best and meg- halayan at worst   and infinity will barely even bat an eye or lift a lazy vector for our poor degaussed uncanny tracts of flesh – so we climb the human mountain breath by breath until not a tooth is left unturned and every shadow laced by lambent light of the sugar moon

misfit prophets been up all night practicing the lost art of staying alive in the dark parsimonious half a spark and burning bodies on the moon   and drunk on the vesperal shift of the earth as it’s cast in soft sapphire and wormwood in sentient shadows that drift and whisper in tongues that we’ll never learn   and would come slowly undone if we did ...

rogue blackholes metabolize the stellar ashes of our   earthbound secrets

tight-lipped the worms of Avalon dig the soft soil of human syntax   with a deep inconsistency for the fear of infinity and an affinity for leaving their mark   in ruins in the dark so now the worms of Avalon dig a slow curse of Darwin’s revenge on these domesticated beasts still lurking in the shadows still sharpening their teeth

ersatz oblong specific and skewed white-knuckled Creatures of the moon thrash and ask the Chaos flatly: “what did we ever do to sleight you?” “were we wicked, were we  greedy – perhaps indigent or stale?” “or were we simply more than could be absorbed by your cold, entropic stare?” and just beyond the pale the Chaos barely bats an eye “oh you silly Creatures …”, it casually replies “who could have the time to keep track of all the trite and small things that scratch and crawl along the wall and ‘cross the floor of that unfortunate fishbowl you call the ‘apex’ of existence” “so if there’s nothing more, could you children kindly keep it down” “i’ve had my fill so take a pill and let’s table this for now” and without a single question answered the inquisitors just swooned plastic hapless hyperactive ersatz Creatures of the moon

oblige the oblique we have an internet of things that we won’t know we didn’t need until the lens of history decides to cast its shadow on our bones   like Pygmalion’s prying eyes denying Galatea’s stone

burnt down to the bricks the sun has fallen into our hands pyrophobic hegemonists  lionizing the glitch -- but the glitch only ever cuts one way   we stand at the threshold ripe and uncanny hung from the moon like marionettes our feet barely scrape the bones of things   and we offer our hearts (whatever wilderness contained there and whatever beasts) to any man or god or machination that may lull us with its sway   anodyne and feelin’ fine … whatever gets us through the day  

sprawled across the room me myself and the cohort moon like embers in a frozen solar   wound that will not heal   or kinetic children in the womb basking beautiful dilatant dilletantes who flaunt their awesome hyperbolic boon   stochastically surreal oozing syrup from our stitches pyrolytic ghosts who haunt this human qualia pernicious   vicarious and viscous living shadows of our liquid doom sprawled across the universe –   me myself and the cohort moon  

pluripotent; soft insect electronic the entire sky gone cataclysmic and hush holograms won't say if they saw the ingenue absconding with a gang of words how she shed her callow skin in sheets along uncanny trails of medicine sleek as snakes to sharp vibration in secret kept at bay and all to form new nomenclature our specific skills on full display

fetishized doom and the contagion takes hold   endless night wears a thousand shapes  – we steam in flesh and shadow like creatures seeking their own forms   moon-burned …                    and paper hearts cut in- felicitous fingers   robbing nectar from the apogee  

I come back with gravel in my thoughts, the gate still closing behind my ribs.   The air smells of iron and lilacs, as if the ground has learned to breathe more honestly than the living.   Names followed me home— not loudly, only as weight, like coins sewn into a coat I did not know I was wearing.   Between the rows, time folded itself into thin white sheets. Birth and death became margins, and the middle was left blank for God or chance to misplace.   I touched a date and felt my pulse argue. The future blinked, embarrassed.   Now the city pretends nothing happened. Cars pass. Windows shine. But my body walks slightly behind me, still listening to the patience of stones that have outlived every question.

The Steps of My Self I. The First Step I felt my pulse beneath the skin of dawn, a timid drum inside a cavern of ribs. The air tasted of unclaimed days, and I pressed my hands to the earth, learning its weight, its patience, its refusal to bend to the shape of my fears. II. The Second Step I walked through forests of other people’s voices, their words like branches scraping my shoulders. I learned to crouch beneath their expectations, to wear the moss of approval on my back, until one night, I let it fall- and found the soil of myself waiting underneath. III. The Third Step Rivers ran through my chest, cold and relentless, carrying fragments of old selves. I dove into them, into the dark water of regret, letting the current strip me bare, letting the stones of mistakes cut and polish me until I emerged- stranger, yes, but unbroken, flesh and memory renewed. IV. The Fourth Step I spoke with the wind in my hair, with the fire that lived under my ribs, with the moon that pressed

so let me drown in this city of blues, so you can always find me through whale songs that break through barriers of frequencies and human detectable sound waves.

silence is the space between sound that resonates with eternity forever what the mouth speaks it lets into its folds not for pearls and tears not for gold beyond limitless ends not for another similar world sitting still with pen in hand hoping for the words to write themselves I am the eyes looking into the hollow door peering inside myself for crumbs of wisdom but the notes of solitude evens out the nocturnal chords of sense and sound until darkness climbs out to plaster itself behind mountains the intensity of the moon its finger of despair and melancholic whistle is no longer felt by poets and their people they can keep on with their thirst and hunger for something sad and melodic as poetry when Monet painted his many shafts of light van Gogh meditated on his fields and flowers the fruit pickers gathered around all that perfumed rottenness it must have been when Daedalus found land so effortlessly while Icarus was seen falling into the ocean but the silence was all I felt and

you are not discrete as you burst through a window left open in bent lines and infinite velocity and I observe you every particle of you as you traverse the distance from where you rest in snapshot memory to two parallel clefts in an otherwise dark continuum and I can't help but absorb every phase and phrase as you form into language, into energy, building kinetic momentum and phantom photonic touches on all surfaces left exposed and I know, now I'll have to develop novel theories to explain you and the motion in your wake; to know how to classify the cause and effect connection between two bodies in space.

you exhale and light licks at the edges of a dustcover, a book unfurls itself in a fluttering of pages. how is it you still occupy this this this this cavity- so much of it and so prominent? this place I thought had gone- and has gone- was never filled, and still exists in liminal spaces of me. for sake of argument, I imagine myself, in hypothetical version- in parallel universe and you tangled, pulling, tilting wanting tracing starshapes into every bit of skin and synapse, yearning the map of you into memory endlessly it was always real and imagined, both; it only never came to be. and I know this exercise of thought-- the soft glancing light cast toward an event horizon... it shivers itself into me like a breath long held in lungs, forgotten. as if not my own, but shared. I rest on a singular certainty that somewhere in the quantum, maybe many many many versions we are

everything (is everything) and we exist in a crushing field, an inherited cruelty passed down through the death of our (ap)parent star. the weight presses down unseen, living , here. "here" is everywhere and (everything) known and unknown. the magnetism of being alive. (it) pulled us in, when we were atoms, maybe. part of some nothing or another reality, (doesn't) matter circling a bright light, like a moth. acting on instinct, on nature and that is our way

seacrow circling faded light-- vacant harbor drowning in an aftermath of sorts some bygone disaster-fiction, ancient malediction uttered quixotic and hushed, spoken into strange afflictions of a heart untouched. it would be easy to see you in this way I don't. we gather in the round, in shadow of the fourth wall weary under pressures repetitive bending, twisting cacophonous and echoing, moments meld into mosaic tile portraiture, some mural or monument to a time both of us somehow knew something even though we never did. All my paint brushes are stained darker shades, but it's only in pursuit of understanding all the blank spaces in me. And I am grateful

I’m thinking of impossible things Things that never were. Or could be Just because I am me Just because I am who I am I’m thinking of impossible things And all I can do is thank them Thank the lines I never crossed The chances I never took Dices I never cast I’m thinking of impossible things Those that never happened and those that did The moments of no importance you can’t be bothered to remember Lived yet lost Traceless yet real Forgotten like most of our lives I’m thinking of impossible things