Protest the passing of the world

Mark and erase and paw and taw your way

Across the infinite palimpsest

Who bothers to describe a thing

Except when they cannot attain it

When they have already lost it

To write at all is to embrace the passing of the world

A whirling embrace, stuttered solecisms

* * *

My body from two bodies

Growing in saudade seasons

Dulled and sharpened by the variable intensity of senescence

The attachment of love to objects

The disassociation of love from reality

The world is illuminated quite brightly

There is no sun within the mind

Everything is visible

We intend, injure and inter ourselves

With or without hope, with or without despair

A scratch on the black painted mirror-back

Reveals a glint from the bare bulb in the attic

There is no consummate understanding

No great ideal to be gained

We must be willing to recreate the world again and again

* * *

Ashes of ancient stars fall like snow through the silhouette of time

All is sense and indefinite oneness

Locked within mind, body, pain and imagination

We are alone, taken by togetherness

I cannot be and I cannot leave

Held in place by the indeterminate terminal edges

The incomprehensible boundary of the universe

* * *

I love the world best through a window

There is light carried in crow’s feet through cloud-veils

Nails ripped from floor boards by the wing-shaped velocity of the equinox

There is light traveling in an arrow arc

Through cataracts of dust

Beneath deep blue vaults

The room loses its shape at the end of the day

Trapezoids of electromagnetic radiation

Slide across a few square feet of renter’s carpet

Its fugitive existence disintegrating into an algorithm of dust

Within this world within me

Transfixed by its specious wayward revelation

I always find myself in this same abstracted place

Windows, mirrors, and walls hung in the air like empty picture frames

The labyrinth cannot be followed back so easily

I unfold myself until all the creases are exposed

Taking this origami soul back to the flat, bare page

* * *

Missingness tells me things

Skin, sweat, fear, gravel, photographs

Atomic dust washing into the sea

None of this exists

Not the photographs as I remember them

The moments in which they were taken

As imperceptible as someone else’s pain

* * *

Do not try to imagine me

Being self-conscious, one does not wish to be guessed at. Lacking self-consciousness, one does not wish to guess

Containing oneself in a singularly contrived version of reality, on which no other system can overlay, is the only enlightened path

Existence is untenable, yet so easily accounted for by those who exist

It is important to resist attempts to imagine anything

The process of ideation must remain muddled

The mechanism below hidden, it’s singing muffled

Protected against mysterious empathy, time dies in an elevated moment and we continue