such vivid dreams I stun myself by sun

upon day; they imprint themselves on the 

back of my eyes; negatives of blackened sunsets,

old friends met upon stairwells and along musty

corridors; stairways that wind, a tape unravelling under my

eyelids; dark swirling pits that lead into the subconscious

ether and beyond, to another galaxy where the scent of jasmine

replaces the deceased, and upon stone mausoleums I lay

my body to rest, supine, abandoned to the world within. 


Me: a clean white line

the limits and boundaries marked out

at the edge of my fingers; and I, I-

feeble I, a noun hovering over a snow-lit silence,

the brittle ice cracks that encrust my rock-solid

heart, a red stone of beating fire within the chest,

disassociated from— me, world, it; leering

over my shoulder with a wolfish grin, its teeth

a metal hard line outlining the horizon, as the me

swirls, sinks into the whirl womb of the soul

away, away from all that stands exterior, obtuse,

obscene, outside of the clean white cell of the I

a self-sustaining capsule, an individual ecosystem;

subtracted from the subject noun of setting,

hovering in between here and neither.



pulled thin as a muscle over a sky bled

lurid and clean, like the split half of an apple

sliced, devoured by a throat wrecked in a fit

of choking sobs, shaking the body asunder

thunder gripping bony flesh, stretching skin

tight as the muscle of the mind 

over a sun-slit sky- surgery of 

cosmic dimensions, a patient lying

limp, lifeless; frigid, a frail thin shred of 

withering white hair falling over like snakes 

along a distant sky.

raising somnolent body from 
cocoon-nest of bed, peeling off sheets of night;
why does the dark set so deep and the sun rise
so slow, its sleepy head drenching my limbs with
a dower of amber dream dew. The winter sets so
gently in, pouring into my soul a dreamless sleep;
filling my deep so all I want to do is be with myself-I
a kernel of me, enveloped by dried leaves, snuck under
 my inward moon-sunken sky.

in knots my head my body a bundle of
nerves co-tangled, leaping like electrical
heaps; I cry myself a volcano erupting
as I perch, self-naked on its peak; the
edges of my elbows swelling like swollen
roots engulfed in water; I am-- a landscape, no--
a world, each ligament extending from one
edge of the horizon to the other; within this
pale cocoon I am growing a new selfhood,
a tender shoot peeking its fire-hot limbs
out into the yet birth-drained tender skies.
Snow flurries; today the clocks run backwards
the minutes pattering like a parade of minute ants
crawling across my skull, I remember distinctly
the day the hour leapt up and out into the future-- 
up-from-its-bed, a corpse risen from its coffin, like
Kafka's father returning from the dead with a force
of omnipotence; then, my schedule became dictated
by the draining of time, the structuring of seasons, the
lifeline of the universe; I fell to a heap, then-- be-muffled,
confused, dejected, the snow setting into my wintry silent
sleep, as the pale sun rose its lazy head from the crevices
of this newly defined world.
The enormity of-- words, words, a sea
swelling about me, around my limbs, my torso
sweeping the skies like-- a dust storm, each tiny
capsule breaking and pricking the ceiling of my skull
like-- a ceiling fan that won't stop revolving, its blades
cutting a continuous edge through each pelvic elbow collar 
bone, etching a line into my bones, my sinews, a sentence
expanding, advancing like a stampede of horses, each capsule
bespeaking the same words, repeated; a refrain inexhaustible, spanning
like a path from one end of the horizon to the other: 
life, you are-- too much.

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