Tuesday, September 28, 2010


Humanity is a rumor, a vapor play
moving through the lines before the vanishing point.
If occasional red grunts from a stubbed toe
it's nothing I can feel, it's just a memory of pain

yet my shape - my very soul - conforms to the fractured view
like the universe itself is too wounded to move,
or, rather, the blood stands still while everything else flows
in a dizzy spin of motion without form

where even light comes from things broken in the churn,
where every boundary's finally soothed with swirling gray,
a hurricane of thought that grows in folds and rolls away
to form one more electric galaxy of crackling noise.

Aggressors and receptors go off dancing in the flux,
the knife to feel the twinge, the wound to feel the fury
in imagination's clouds of possibility
dissolving into further storms, the clash of thunderbolts

in a vast non-linear sky, where the causes
of what we experience are hidden behind cloud,
where all that will be and was is blurred in raptures of the light
—so much hangs off the empty sheen inside the ink-black iris.