The Anarchivist

                                        Made by the mud washed from a rich soil,
demolished by the violence of
the sea, an anything-but-brash course
in anodynamics, don’t pull it
out unless you say a prayer, if you
don’t want to be offended, if you
dare trouble this mess of what was once
me, never much of someone, no one
until devoured by forbidden
                    knowledge, by carnal fruit bitten and

                                        cleansed, never alone since being split
from deep within some elusive stone,
an ardent underdogmatist and
iconoclassicist, a devout
heretic making of his graven
images their nemesis, meeting
my old reflection’s awful grin with
a mouthful of damage, now I’m self-
fulfilled, gold-billed, rubber-necking like
                    an alchemical pelican ’til

                                        world’s-end, eating my own heart out, I’ve
got a scored throat so you know where to
cut, no matter the edit a new
head sprouts, nothing sacred, silver-tongued
and without doubt, free-of-charge, guilt freed
without charge, dismissed without any
prejudice, granted every wish,
Splendor Solis until the sun sets
on my artistry’s efficacy,
                    language fails us, and takes back its gift.