“It’s too late to escape the hive
mind. It has always been too late!”
Influence cracks you like an egg,
you weak, weak being. “Oh forgive
me, lord forgive me I am proud
and I want to have my own things.
My work will not last, but I want
to speak in a language I have
made out of myself. The trouble
being that I am made of words
which I did not make. Oh lord, strike
out all words I did not author.
Erase history from language
with a pureness, and make me spark
with a creativity that
is greater than yours, a hot spark
that spews out works and words as if
at random. But make it all me.
Make everything me, make the hive
bow before me. Make it listen.”
Are you okay? You seem a bit
worked up. I’m sorry I don’t know
what you are saying. Do you speak?
Passerby, do you speak language
If I could steal her again, my bright
breeze, give the air means to move again
I would, I would set my brother’s word
in ice, bury it here and see it gone.
What lesson was there to be learned?
Once you are trapped in yourself, no gleaning
can offer you worse, can free you, so…
She flees from me and I can’t read her
despite these most constant assertions.
She sits at the computer all dressed
in that soft cotton striped playsuit. Damn
I wish I could rearrange the world
so that I get what I want. A world
where the geography itself would mean
desires satisfied and grown hectic.
And where the words strung out would thus lack
all connection to this or that – no
resistance, just me as every law.
I am tired of all the hot buses
and misty windows in hell – and words
I cannot cut at the joints, chatter
of all ghosts ever. But am I
any better? I just wanted this:
a person to lie in a warm bed
who would wake me up with caressing.
I would ever try again – but here
in Hades, desires undermine us
As we stand and talk about bread
The various types
That the days conditions left,
Under the light
Of the sun which peels the day
Just like the last
segments of warm clementine
And swallows the rest
The materiality of you rises
With force to greet me
Through your mouth and other pieces
I feel your embrace already.
Its a nascent form
Of seers insight to a body
Sensing the dirt
My mind’s soft worm burrows in
Feeling our heat
In this brown paper bag, and then
I take short steps out