!!Katabasis
is a matter of dissent. Having
tired of plastic wreaths and bauble-
dusted water, I swallowed the shout echoing
in the stairwell of my throat. I walked
into the shades, the long crowds of them.
They were my cloak, or I theirs.
I passed coins to ghosts in the
scratched halls where prophets lick
tiles. Underworld geography rose with pitched
breath. Vaulted chambers of fluorescent flash
shook memory loose, knocked my mind’s
eye ajar. I [[touch->[] me! [] me! [] me!]]ed a shelf of carmine rabbits
for the holidays. The labyrinth revealed itself
to be all sound and light.     Outside, then.
Smoke drifted off me like long curls
of lost hair, brushed away with the
fine points of falling snow. In the dark that
washed my cheeks, tangerine globes,
moth-[   ]ing, stood like sentinels.!![     ] me! [     ] me! [     ] me!
i like gentle [     ]. i like telegraphed [     ]. i don’t like being tackled, or tickled, or yanked. i could put my head down and warm to static signal.
i like the idea of a fight more than the fight itself. i don’t like sweeping up glass, always thrilled with the need for disinfectant. there’s no living in a house with glass all over its floors, all over the soles of my feet. i have a lot of daydreams about being [     ]ed. i could spin them from the thin notions collecting behind my teeth. i’ll open my [[palm->Bird's Eye]]: three good shiny shards splotched under my skin like infection.
i like holding the thought of sex between my molars like a jawbreaker. one good fuck would break me. i don’t like how my skin resists moulding, how it crackles at nails like the moon’s surface, which has always known [    ] but never [    ]d [     ]. i am tender oceans only on the inside.!!Sharing A Grave
i / [    ]d touch / , always thrilled with the need for disinfectant. / living in a [[house->[ ] Letter]] with glass all over its floors, / being tackled, or tickled, or yanked / i’ll open my palm / . / break me. / there’s no / fight more / tender / than the fight itself. / glass / telegraphed / over the soles of my feet. / i have a lot of daydreams about / the [    ] notions collecting behind my teeth. / one good fuck / like a jawbreaker. my skin / , / my molars / and / nails like the moon / sweeping up / shiny shards / which / never / warm to / good / signal. / being touched / crackles / like / splotched / infection. / like holding the thought of / oceans / static / . !!Riverine
O Goddess of Mercy, we are each other’s sole believers.
I’ll sing cantabile dedication to every hand but yours.
But here, watch me kneel to you as I gather dust for your offerings.
Watch me set you between my teeth, silvering you to my neck.
We have grown, you in redwood spurts, me like the sun-flecked tail of a [[fish->In Which I Can't Seem To Fall Asleep Lately]].
I coil under widening [       ]s. You fit in young hands and you fade.
Were you born here as I was? Do we with our guts make a rope to the old ways?
No incense from me. No leash. One day I’ll cut our family ties too.!!In Which I Can't Seem To Fall Asleep Lately
Secondary to the poet is the [    ] tank. Million-
dollar bauble spinning chiffon in the water
salted and stuffed with bubbles. Glassine
[[recollection->Clear Through To Horizon]] of being promised
I was worth something.
Carved shark tooth propped on metal
wires, splay of immature limbs twitching
like insomniacs not yet settled into moonrise.
Where are you going, feathering and molting at once?!!Clear Through To Horizon
The long sidewalk spits up little gifts.
A glossy mirror sprawling like a child-city
    not yet up against its limits.
The spittle of [[thin->Sharing A Grave]] trees hissing gossip
    under the gutter of the wind.
A daydream of flame, shared among
    trucks rusting into their axles.
Surgical scars, chalked and searing.
    Or whatever the inverse of a scar is.
    And up there, taffeta, silk, lace.
The long, oily train of the sun
    calling a [            ] of industry to night.!!Bird's Eye
Secondary to the body is the chart.
I lie back again, pinned by cartography.
Halted pilgrim on the lines of my begging [    ]s.
There is no black like the pure lightlessness
of a dream in which
                    halos pile in
drifts, in which the rough, scattered
skin of the [[ceiling->Riverine]] ghosts meaning beyond
my senses. Turning under blankets,
I roll to accommodate absence.!![    ] Letter
Coils of street bring me down to the lakeside with gold still dazzling from my aluminum wrists.
Rocked by tunnel-running, by the rise of innocent bridges,
into pure landscape.
Out there, the rows of [     ]s. The jutting canines in brick colours. The blunt, narrow fingers where people live.
Steel rattles me, demanding sympathy, moving quick.
Some of it is not metal but plastic, or softer, [[flesh->are you done yet?]].
Temporary cradle of me inside me,
the stretched teeth of the falling light,
and machinery. Motion. Taking me home.!!are you done yet?
i am sick of talking about it. a pound of [     ] is a pound of [     ]. these are the rules of [     ]:
1. no self-aggrandizing. the [     ] harbours no ambitions beyond itself, comes bearing no ideology like fruits in its hands. it is all a retroactive glory.
2. no minimizing. the [     ] asks for something and every cell leaks for it.
3. no soothing. [     ] is [     ] is [     ]. it draws lines and bleeds through them. think of viral infection. think of pathogenic process. think of dust looking dust in the eye without illusion, without mirage.
4. put glass in your eye. accept gloaming. resolve.
<p class="cent">[[Try again.->Katabasis]]</p>