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A Textual AnnealingA thousand thousand generations
misinterpreting the lightning,

A tumult of attempts, many
mumblings while we burn - each time
most is lost, some survives.

At the whistle of illusion that awakens,
day drops dream on me. I am
thick with swerve: If there are giants
there is a world they walk on.

And for the final faith
to be an inversion: We are
the electricity lunging toward the sky.

Our Meaning and PurposeI

All of death is death. Life,
too, is like death.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

II

I was confused
so I asked God: What should I do?

Move your body and have emotions. The birds were dancing.

Could you be more specific?

But now God was busy arguing with Moses.

III

All of life is life. Death,
too, is like life.
The way it erupts over you
laughing and spinning.

IV

Tomorrow is the sound
of a question falling
on a bed of questions.

Today I hold out
your name, God,
in the public square.

Yesterday reason, the slayer
of song, wended its way
into our will.

V

All of light is linking. Dreams,
too, would se

What are you doing?You with the motley heart
of patched together prayers
to other people's gods,
of quilted love songs from lovers
you never loved,

what are you doing
with all that flesh

that body
held up
by hunger in the morning, by hunger
the limbs lifted
into the posture of industry

and all those words,
whispers that wander
and give up
in the air between us

and the flush
of ambition, of ambition swelling
with pleasure
like pus
until the pop

what are you doing
with this poem.

This PoemEither we exist or we do not exist.
Mostly,
we do not exist; here
where the void fizzles
up into life
there is room to laugh
there is time to forget names
to recover the sound of a syllable.
Here memories
are melted down, reforged: Either
we exist by not existing or we do not exist.
Rallying lullabies to ring
against reason; wielding reason
against the waste of ripples in rhyme.

How to Read and WhyMaybe if you read this poem
you won't feel so lonely anymore.
Maybe the words will wrap their syllables
around your skin. Maybe the rhythm
will reel you up from whatever
dark sea you've been drowning in.

New FaithOf course it would be foolish to assume that the relationship between us is linear:

I touch your skin.
Memories re-align
to meet the meaning in your eyes.

Of course it would be foolish to resume the old ways of believing:

There is no pain
that this moment
cannot bend into beauty.

LightlostHardheaded autothought
puddles the nighttime sky
though bright Arcturus sinks
to meet Capella in the east.

The moon will be new,
wreaking disorder;
all indignant ballast
as you bend compromise
around its weakest point.

Stubborn Sagittarius
pours his final summer
from a steeply tilted spout.

FireI live
as if the mountain speaks,
as if you speak,
as if I had spoken before.

And I live
as if words fall from flesh like words,
as if words fall from the word like flesh
wet with impossibility and empty
like the spaces water runs through.

ArticulationBend, body. Shatter the
shimmer of a world standing still
before us. There will be the being
reaching back into the burst
of chemicals that parts the light.
There will be the heart that strings through
limbs like a puppeteer. The perceptions
sinning like a prayer against the as is.

Today the water is wet like water and

the priest says: For five years now
you have held this lump of death in your left pulmonary artery.
For five years your brain has flopped about on the bottom
of your brain, gasping with knowledge of its own impossibility. Today, look
out across the leaves of the bleating tree. And I

say: Dear leader of your own li

Of Lost Causethey say every lonely sigh gathered from children in that city
pours through her body and redolent skin, read through
the ink of vines on veins and restless, small leaves- torn with
tired hands and god's lost smile.

they say our days are numbered, like the
creases between your skin and the break of waves on starving oceans. maybe
the fallout of a country drawn by prophets with cracked chords and
an endless list of listlessness.

they say happiness is glorified by the example of science: the reaction given
and reduction taken in a stretch of paradoxical lies of paradoxical truths-
sounds of simplified silence and their tenuous strains

Further Mastications of My ImpossibilityYour body would break into language and flutter away.

What is existence? What existence is inside of it, pushing it to further existence? What existence is above it, pulling it to further existence?

I have the pavement and the clouds. Oh, I have a thousand thousand things. I am filthy with particularities. Where is the word that will brush them away? Where is the word that will uncover us, that will let us look at one another in our beginnings?

Your body would break into language and flutter away.

In the beginning, which is never the beginning, the word was more like a whistling sound. The wind in the trees, perhaps. And light was running

water processspirit-sloth and overdone;
wonder-lost and undercome:
still.
you are trenchant, sweet love.

you planted early mornings-
I lay coffee-drunk and thin;
oh,
the stir of your brown hands.

Over Three Stories and a Complete DiscordanceThe serious intent of a mirror wakes the world. Of the mirror that makes the world we know very little. Just rumors of an open mouth vibrating up and up to the clouds. So the bright grey cracks the dull grey and something, we'll call it the sun, reaches through and grabs us by the skin.

:::

The members of an invisible happiness swim colors between one another. They cannot tell the difference between windows and mirrors, light coming and light going, places where the light has been. They hold the air with both hands and speak with sounds of trees, their language a lifting flock of hallelujahs.

:::

From beneath tongues, mirrors exhume light

I.My bones were glass blown:
Crafted to curve lowly -
(un)beautifully - furling like
a fetus,
inchoate.

Imagine me transmuted, bursting through
desquamated skin. Picture my
clay-molded contours liquified
and awakened, shifted:
Incognito.

But I am unseasoned - grape-shelled,
guileless. Esotericism is overflowing
in my veins:
I click
shut.

This path is as smudged as
its traveler (skidding yet
never slowed), clotted
with mud:
Defiled.

Watch my fingers splay, breaking
from my tendons to
grasp tangible air
and touch
nothing.

You can neither scorch nor
whittle me into
nail-sized hopelessness, only
make me
obsolete.

Steeled, my jaw is set -

Anatomy of the SunLanguage is body yearning to reach past itself. Body is body as it bodys up the stairs.

You were born to be lonely
and look across the undulating landscape of words
and on the horizon see the smoke of an invisible fire.

What would you burn if I gave you its embers?

I wake up believing
today:

(1) The earth will be orbiting beauty.

(2) All the old motions of celestial matter
were only weaving us a better comfort.

(3) Something holier than hunger
will hold me up and drive my limbs through the air.

(4) The sonic tedium of a beating heart
will no longer be what lets me live.

Lake up bleating: I am only a tree
but the usual gravity l

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More from ~ExistenceWeSummonYou

CoverThe last time I said your name, it became the moon,
slipped me into waking, fed me the ignorance I need
to see the night.

The last time I said your name, it left me in the forest
to be seen by the animals, to peel the fruit,
to feel the tree, to feel it moving.

The last time I said your name, it hid me from the hunters
that stretched out my desires and laughed with stretched
faces to feed on my not having.

The last time I felt the cold, it burnt my
body with belief in your
body. It held out our names above us both.

BottomI know I'm near the ledge now
where the heart gives up on conceiving:
The parlous break of eye and ear's parley.

I need the legion of null-things now
to enter through the lesion on our pain,
the glitter to blink and wink
to obscure the abyss all of our bodies
are falling for.

Seven QuestionsThe majesty of the mundane summons me; yes my Lord
I say to the dripping water. Don't you recognize your own self? And I pull
the puddle up and call it my body.

What does it mean when I don't resist
the language that dumps me in the desert. With no blunt
objects. Only the sun slowly sucking
my body dry. Despite my impatience

eventually comes the night and the moon
to pour these questions past my teeth:

1) Is it true that bugs in your eye are the same as birds in the sky?

2) How long do we have to stare at a tree before we are granted consciousness?

3) What is the difference between existence and a general resistance to the motionless hea

How and Why People DieYour body swings out
away from you. Your body
surges back
against you. Your life
lives now as a charge in the mind
of death but your death
belongs to me. It will be the hollow of my
lungs and I will learn to laugh
as the morning surges against me. And I will learn
to erect my voice in the street that no one may hear
how our bodies are not our own. They belong
to our body.

The Planet X NibiruYou place your non-existence inside of me. Will it be a flower? I hope it will be a flower. Anyway, then you ask me to go home so I walk home through a vast forest and find a big tree with a branch big enough to lay down on. I think "I will take my silence here." It is comfortable in the right way. The bark scrapes against my back keeping me vigilant about the future. In the future, the Planet X Nibiru will come and crash into the Planet Earth. So many will die and there will be a general inversion of life and death. The earth and fire of the body will become air and water and consciousness will go to sky and ocean and also I will hate you. "

Give It WelcomeSeven years old, observe me falling from the bicycle. Skin scraping against concrete and I am bleeding, bleeding. The red rising in my mind, rearranging the atmosphere, that my eyeballs might have room to pop out and dance. Dancing eyeballs! They teach me not to say "so there is pain" but to stand to language as it looms above. Blood on the outside of me is blood on the inside of something else. A stranger that also needs oxygen. All of the heart, beating.

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Submitted: October 8, 2011
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Ugly

by ~ExistenceWeSummonYou, Oct 8, 2011, 4:48:51 PM
Literature / Poetry / Transgressive / Free Verse

I found my body out back in a dumpster,
strange scrunch of screaming tissues.

I tried to feel it. Frustrations flaked off,
fled into a wisdom of shut eyes.

I tried to whisper reason at it;
it lunged with mirthless laughter.

I groaned as it lashed me with its string
of grotesque demands. I managed

to drown it in dreams, and ate
the bloated remains, let my bodi-
less mind, free of gravity, make
its way to the stars. But the stars

were fat with smirking and I
was plunging into a dumpster as I
grope toward knowing these stars are my body.