—i.—
Never sit
with your back to
an uncurtained
window
the suicide recital
raging on outside means you’ll
either find yourself
shot, or your fears
projected onto
enemy lines
filled with what you
couldn’t give
little gifts you said
you’d deliver in time
but you didn’t
so now you’re sitting behind
a glass, compressed
passing time
specimental, speculating
causes of your opening
how the crowd got inside
—ii.—
My artistic output
or my artistic pulpit?
What is it?
Crucifixion
from within
experienced
by redolent
donors digging in
Beauty will be convulsive
or it will not be
says silence
like a prophet
The scream is
the operation
through which
the entire body
escapes through
the mouth
a moth rejecting
f(l)ame, that glittering
aperture parting
—iii.—
its bonds enough
so we can see
a revolution
of lamb skewered
into renewal—
the revelation
reddening our seams
tearing from
closed eyes
promises melting
into pieces of the chosen one
reassembled
it all ends
when its beginning
has been remembered
how you sent
a glance, and I inked
a letter requesting
your presence
which went
unanswered.
