02.26

I was unsure what the light
would look like when I arrived
here.

Here, it severed a leg.
There, another head,
run through by
a bright shard.

I watched it
collect against my hand
as a warm volume,
remembering
your cupped palm,
folded and flickering
like a surprising
bird.

02.08

DEAR DRAWING:
So. The world expires at your touch. The touch, cut up, some Burroughs thing - what was it? “I shine at the moment I’m cut.” I’m brought close to something I remember from a past, brushing against my shoulder.
Was that music?
Was that the throne of heaven?

I know for sure that we are, ourselves, against continents. On this island, I’ve found some clunked out landing gear, the throne of heaven’s sound, landing on the top of the palace. The king, sucking his wife’s last breast, the other, a dry scar. Amputated in her body’s war against itself.
Continents are languages. Wholeness at war with parts. Human shields, the light shining through from shrapnel.

There were years when I was not myself, when a double found me, and walked off with my bags. He smelled of potatoes.

There is a machine with me that describes the surface of the vapor-world in ways that I can’t describe to you. The general invisibility of things we love.

One thing is increasingly clear:
I have learned how to hate the non-existent.

H.M.

Today I Wrote Nothing

02.03

Beating hearts
sometimes
beaten,
or beaten back,
hurled at one another
from hands
that became wrenched
in the works
while raising the
theater curtain.