I

It was a blade 

held to my neck 

that made the impulsive tongue beg—

for mercy, we will abandon ourselves. 

The bird will abandon its nest 

if captured. 

And while doubtful, 

I take a step through 

the cage door 

and towards home. 

Yet the blade moves with me. 

What would I do 

were I the air? 

II

white light sitting frail / on the cusp of that world behind / the one beneath my feet / beyond the veil / sacred sense of clarity / melting into crackling oil / finding its way into / my short lived pleasure / ocean air becomes language / an empty white room forever / seeking someone who knows / that it’s there / dreamt lies / they surround me now / as I look away / someone must be waiting / I wanted to know them / I’m afraid / my tongue will freeze in a word / their faces could mean anything / from afar / how does one return / from hiding / how does one resort / to faith / I’ve forgotten the steps / yet the voice tells me / you’re going nowhere / you haven’t been

Were we ghosts before growing mouths?

Did time begin with the clock or the word?

Is the line between life and death drawn above our heads, or beneath our feet amongst the bone white remains of childhood? 

What I do know is that the sun still whispers to me through the curtains each morning, bearing the same warm breath that took me from the bowels of sleep and into the aroma of my early days. I know that the birds chirp more at 3 am than 10 am where I am, and for some reason I can’t stop thinking about it. I know that there’s a reason I’m afraid of selling my old things, I just don’t know it yet. I know that I shouldn't have been pleased to see pollution covering the mountains on the way to Bakersfield, but even in death the warm golden brush along the sides of the freeway seemed more alive than even me. Tell me, does death use the walls of our minds to hide from the life pulsing out of everything we touch?

I

The reaper, beside his blood coated scythe, sitting under an eternal night sky from which every star will one day fall. Each year is a knife twisting through his plastered bones, and the pain is not one of flesh but one of memory. Waiting for the light of a single distant star to dissipate, he sits in an absolute quiet. And when the star finally casts its darkness upon a galaxy that he will never know, he is met with a brief wind to soothe his hollows. This, is the ecstasy of affinity.

II

The angel, inside the warmth of a golden lake, weightless and apt to the volume of the space around her. Within her arms lies the remnant of a star that once was; in every direction the light moves forth. Reflected back in an instant, regardless of distance, the pool of light she inhabits connects her to each and every star that ever has, and ever will be. In the colossal face of this everythingness, she displays an unadulterated calm. This, is the ecstasy of infinity.

III

The human, amongst the gray between darkness and a gleaming window. Outside of this box, exists a succession of larger ones. With their eyes fixed to the world on the other side, they recall the feeling, wistfully, of stepping out into that world and sensing yet another window—one so perfectly transparent that forgetting about its existence is an ordinary act. Their arms extend outward as if to breach the glass, but this time, and every other time, their fingertips are met with an unexpecting shock. Their arms fall to the floor as the waves of electricity reverberate through their body. Defeated, their gaze fixes back towards the sight in front of them; and they continue their search—feet forever married to the earth. This, is the ecstasy of finitude.

Aiming hard at the mixture of yellow and white lights in the parking lot, I’ve opened only one eye. I reserve the other. The lights melt into brighter ones as my limbs run their course. From, to, there. Opposite the earth's rotation. The eye closes, and the other clocks in. I’m home again. Places don’t intertwine, and that’s a cog in the great, big, mechanical labyrinth. I wait out the hours, forgetting I had already waited. And again.

The image was of me and how unbearable that is. The self furthers when in glass. It is magnified in things like chocolate and favored jackets. The image made me green. In it I have tentacles that bear their own fangs. The looker sees them reaching for something in the surrounding dark. To no avail, the looker declares. Four corners and four dead ends. The world within the photograph extends only to the ends of your belief. You choose where to place the cliff, but not how steep the fall.

I imagine that we’re prepared for the overpowering gray winds after feeling them once. Minding the cold and the monarchy too. The many forms that weight acquires. It’s all a given once you decide you’re to make something of this excavated ground. This life. One has to enter the arachnid's lair, naked and sickly. It would seem this is hard for us. Sugar and stasis are warm things. Ejaculation. The countless times we’ve begun. Destruction has a syntax that we crave, and having a little to say about a lot is the key.

Again, they come surging through the belly and out from the mouth. How callous that a thing from my bowels would not be mine. The word was with god. The word was god. The word defileth what it dare touch. I who has been spoken and I who speaks. The disparity. Glowing white horses meeting quicksand. Sunken earth laying claim to what I’ve failed to hold. The mud reaches my neck with cold accord and—can you hear me?