i
am of
the
earth.
born into
the dying.
the transition’s processionists,
poets of the requiem;
shadow tempests;
a gestational pulseof holy longing.lovers of the disturbed
ash and roots
death is but the condition of our belonging.as we walk,
An alchemy:
Of hurt and salve;
truth and beauty
bloom
combining
They sing to the bonesa homecoming
a correspondence
a divining:
dios de micelio
create life out of destruction
asi que con bisabuelos, con antepasados
juntos curamos la herida:
we raise the fireweed.
and so, we reach now through the wound:the fibers
the sinew
the mote
gather,
convening.
Death is a return to the womb;
A verisimilitude.
is this a Dreaming?
Waiting on unknowns.
Verses caught in transition.mensajes cast into the threshold
At the edge of existence.
There’s this spot where the ocean meets the skyline
The horizon dissolves
Sea and sky lose definition.
At the edge of the world:
A vastness
An opening
an infinite
collision.
I think I find myself there,More than any place else. In what could be,
What is
Was
Will be
isn’t.
I find myself thereVersing unbounded
potential
insisting:
Ser el Puente
Lose the self
Become
the transition.
these lines don’t extend my skin
they burn where they cross over.
flesh singed by the latticeworks of the grid.
m a t t e r a n d m e a n i n g l e a v e m a r k s o n a b o d y
Patterns of the un/fitted.
un/aligned.
un/configured.
dis/enabled.
beings of the chasm,
where silence is codified
into the spatial
somewhere amongst the inbetweens,
of existential perforation,
of matter/ing and meaning.
o v e r a n d o v e r a n d o v e r,
i bleed.almighty immanence
diffractive infinite.
blood pools and dries,
matters of difference
harden beneath my feet.keep knocking up against these walls and ceilings.
feeling stuck inside this box.
these expectations, imprint themselves against my skin.
[in the thick of usurpation, turbid thoughts]hard to tell where the world ends and my self begins.
entangled predelections exhaust.
histories, dance across my skinburning permanence, pattern painted thoughts.
not sure where my line of intention is
trying to get a sense of whats mine and whats not
sondering within the fret,
dropping threads,
a perpetual promenade between is and ought.
i read once, that words are weapons. wield them wisely, in their splendor, in their violence. that in the silence of what it is, and what could be,
they find their defiance.what lies between what’s written, and that which crowns perception?
indefinite shadows masquerade upon walls, while the hallows of truth beguile acceptance.
i wonder, of the words that don’t break the surface, liminal gods of expression,
what kinds of matters, remain estranged, severed, from man-made transcendence. such sources of vision, however fragmented, of divine prismatics
somewhere in-between sentient beings,
and sorcery and magic.
truth evades us, even as words proliferate,
in the fertile nexus,
the realm of intangibles.
simulated experience, blinds us with signals, traps us within the threshold. where meaning, becomes gesture, where word, becomes symbol,
what becomes of weapons and splendor, transcendence,
in the land of the ephemeral?
i press my fingers against it. feel the cool indifference. not quite flexibility not quite resistance.
i slide my hand across the surface, feeling for cracks and imperfections. alive beneath my palm this superficial disaffection. obscured from sensation, saved from insurrection. you can look but don't touch, don't feel, we haven't time for interconnectedness.
if I lay my hand just right against the walls of experience, I can feel the vibrations of others, artificially estranged and deleterious. A funny thing, the ways we are taught to unfeel the human imprint. Carefully atomized reality, mediated existence. I over other, detachment's precondition.
Standing at the threshold, pressing against the surface. Searching for contact, reciprocal purpose.