I can’t
move you or conquer inversions while you digest venom. I can’t console poison
or ask it to change where its nature is ruined.
But a
soul sentenced to sky-dungeons after bread and wine as Eucharist. It must be
consecrated. It must be cleansed. Where our hands are oiled pliers.
Time becomes
blurry. Thoughts blend if not careful. While the onus must shift. But it can’t
be the whales; and it can’t be the octopus; and it can’t be the polar bear. —for
it resides in phantasms!
I was pregnant
with indignation. I was so certain. Where part of design is to cause
recollection. So, a man is unfair, a woman is concrete myths, where
grandparents are left with absolute truth: only those creatures, while most
people are growling, or palming and un-palming gnats.
It seems so
crucial, while forced to agree, or treating make-believe as asphalt.
Dear
Certainty—
what
is your demographic, or better, your witness?
—for
I monitor your loyalty. I have seen your works. Where people aren’t flattered.
You admire
sycophants or naïve monkeys or stingers without venom.
So, I
challenge you, to a game of honesties,
if you
missed our conjecture.
Those mind-lamps
must be ringing. Those trefoils are for wolves. But these phone lines are
stenographers; to dismiss the Judge, to culminate false-winds, or to churn
sacredness in the name of love—it must be condoned or it must be fire-wings or
white-magic; this need for (humiliating submission) while I must un-treat
affection insomuch as lying or falsifying comes naturally. But poetry shall never win—what it
already possesses, and I shall never obtain the Ark of The Covenant; for electricity
a bolt, for remorse its evidence, and for existence its linchpin: those candles with cherries or those chocolates
with certainty while so involved a glimpse might destroy life; this machine
this disservice or so reciprocal Sun Tzu is unveiling!
