oh dearest soul, made of fluid works,
most metallic, burning wood. opal pain, plums in flesh, scratching incense. to
have valor, to have suffering, much peace, calmness, so wild. a soul with
beats, drums with kits, piccolos buried with ashes.
I come that I may vanish. I bathe
that I might get filthy. I confess that I might trespass.
with kiwi paint, sculpting kiwi karma,
drifting into kiwi scars. and those years, like pomegranate seeds, each one
filled with blood. the soul was there, before I appeared, such a bundle of
intimacy: wrapped in kidskin, sipping goat milk, palming mother’s sackcloth:
the soul eating spikes, a cycle made
unclear, each peg is a human.
I understand—too much satisfaction—while
a soul in cringing.
the soul is afire, pouring out
insistence, proud for souls to flourish.
I eat that I may hunger. I write that
I might thirst. I learn that I might unlearn; those habits, those uncritical
nails, that I may unlock a treasure-trove; as miracles become human, like
energies in motion, or assistance answering the charged vassal.
originality is insoluble, insufferable,
unquenched, never censured. it lives in regions, fornicating like skies, so
holy, an irking soul—pushing creativity, dying with ink, running out of paper.
