On the day I married her it did not rain. Mother Octopus, teach me again the way of the tentacled. Morning sun, do you see how your body is merely the world.
Let us go all the way through the keyhole. Giving head to strangers in cars, trangressing in an effort to drive away love, and love not going anywhere. The prism, the promise, the praxis.
Men walking past the cathedral hefting sheaves of wheat. Jasper reminds me that mathematical formulas don't have to be executed, i.e., there is a stillness that does not submit to process.
Living in suffering happily. Arguments regarding the suit of swords which never land well. Love is a cosmos for which desire is a kind of treasure map.
Driving alone across the river, may I never not be the father she needs. A spiritual practice that lately focuses on folding and re-folding literally everything - quilts, her shirt, notes from last year's poems. Capitalism is a form of hunger.
Can you name everything the river took. Falling backwards. At night I sit quietly in the living room and pray, moonlight gliding across the floor towards me.
You want to get naked with me but sister my skin is language, when am I not in your mouth. The Man without Shoes is a servant of history, history is method of assessing memory, and memory begins when we take death literally.
Post a Comment