I write a love letter as an unconditional home for images that complete my a triad. Me, love-relation (deserved of the truly “love thy neighbor”), and processes. The margins of notebook paper are golden genitalia, and I am ringing around the thighs with ink-well thumbs and a pair of safety scissors. Staring into my own poems, addressed to work itself, to process itself, is a weaker version of the incantation to the love of the work itself and therefore the process of the very poem. A love letter is a poem. I have arrested myself mid-stanza before upon realization that I am mid-stanza and should be slapped for not having sold my blood to a piece of mailbox material. Yes, everything is the same and you are a child if you say so and mean it as an ends. I explain my differences now, forgetting the neurotic passiveness in forbidding myself from such points of note such as smells. No bit of my bastard tongue can recreate a smell, though I begin a mining operation to search for the present-eternal and an adequate juxtaposition to place my words to scent. In the love-letter, I open and close the envelope to breathe the wafting beams of fading roses and a desk of a light-stained wood. She will forget too her weaker versions in breathing the letter’s delights, and my words will only be an accessory as I hope them to be. My words, I wish, to be an accessory to scent and the incanted process of poetry in present-eternal prose. I write a love letter as an unconditional home for images that complete a wheel, leading me back to the unspoken point in a triad.
You walk outside, a gun raffle is occurring outside your home. Three men riding three bicycles catch your attention upon the calling of the raffle-winner. An older figure approaches, a sex unto their own, and says to you “time will kill him.” A nausea pervades the form, and it’s as if a festering candid eroticism has gripped the humidity. The sky, strung with cloud-signs, does not cool you but strikes an intestinal disturbance in the pit of your qualms. Through a window across the street (sewage from the stone) a shadow pokes at a black type-writer, letters worn off the keys and all. A waltz floats into the air, and it is then that you compose an auria which the window-writer transcribes on the back of the periodic table of elements. You are more afraid than you have ever been, until a woman on a broken telephone says “not kids, men.” Somehow you cannot kick yourself enough to call yourself a nihilist after hearing her brief undigested utterance. The breach of the form has arrived. Idealizing circadian and the processes of “what is” has only given us more fetishes. Brief breath breathes the breathing breath.
I was lullabied half-past sleep;
the calm of calms
inspired by mute hexagon shards.
Passing the passed past
the hellish roll of erotic thunder
fetishized storm clouds
all thought we looked beautiful
sleeping miles by the thousand paired apart.
Live in a mirror-shroud;
kneeling down in the glass
for no vigil
"no home in no vigil"
so sayeth the sooth
and so you sayeth
when rest-bags come to quell
a belonged slither secret.
Like children we run in darkness,
naked pariahs wearing crowns of silk.