THE SCAR OF WATER,
AGAIN IN THE WINDOW-
A STREAK BECOMES A SCAR OF WATER.

And what foul mouthed moth
borne a foul cocoon,
carried his tilted wing:

I, star speckled speech,
perforate an eyelid-
and hang the foolish nail of Christ's hand
from the slack in tow,
dodge the death addled rut of a *** hole,
in a careening vehicle there, for me,
to cling to life.

You are a lampshade,
a breast, and a trumpet-
OR
A reed,
and handkerchief.

Every candle is a rhapsody built of your breath.

NO, no- you are a body, with a midline, dispersed
and given function to move throughout and with intention.
You are an extended substance, where I, divisible, become
the cry of a boiled lobster.

I would love to count all of your eyelashes,
and sleep next to you.

My voice was harsh because I convinced myself that you were hiding!
Somewhere tucked in a box of rosewood, peeled at the corner and latched with brass.

I carry- I work to carry like a great mule of the Earth,
Atlas, the mule, myself...
Everything of you should belong to me,
but SHOULD is so foolish,
always so foolish... I SHOULD be a consequence of your spit,
some tiny droplet of mist that floats freely from your lip as you talk,
BUT I am your light, instead.

I want to unwrap your chest, tenderly,
swim in it. I love
your nose.

To ground this fear in love-
This sleepwalking ant made of thorns and a tender pulse of the middle *****:

TO GROUND THIS FEAR IN LOVE.

I thought of you as a mother today, as any other day, I thought of you as a mother. I read a poem about a decades long relationship being sundered and thought of yourself, twenty years into motherhood, deciding that I am a sleepwalking ant made of thorns.

My father died after the divorce,
though his body kept on living,
and I have fear that must be grounded in love.
And love, here, so basic.

I want to razor-hatch my grandfather, his father- for laving womb with his seed-
And I want to witness the creature coming out of my mother,
to see the clung-rag of my bone-
my flesh,
given to the floor
to look at the floor  
   and remember that the floor is also a wall

To brandish and damage the Whitmanian sheen:

Can no one tarnish this?
Must anyone pollute it?

It is why I have taken you out into fields-
To make the possibility drift away from empty sight.

Does it not bother you?

To see a mismatched face,
a scrunched lip or sideward glance,
an awkward gait;

Does this not bother you?

I do not think it does.

I live in a rusted compass-
The jittered movement of a world of people opposed to me, fundamentally,
and if they do not appreciate some superficial charm, a quick wit or jawline, then I am a burial ground.

Does this make sense to you?

My shell- who I AM and what I AM in myself,
Is everything of myself in this world: do you understand?

This complaint is a feminine one- a constant feminine one and I do not understand-
it is why I have no patience for the division of quarrel when it allows a space for a will,
and no patience for women when they are born such beautiful creatures.

Do you not understand this?

Everything constitutive of the feminine- be the term bastardized in logistical torment or made to lay prostrate at the altar of the Wesleyan Thesis- is condensed and made perfect in the fold of an elbow, or the basic weakness felt in opposition to the disgusting brute that is the man.

I am a disgusting brute. I have a gut and I have hair on my body. I am a machine- the secondhand contrivance of a protective god. A monument to gestation.

Even when I ***, in brief movement and in brief moment, I am but a moving forth- out of myself and into another to be held, and this action (so crudely overlooked as to be made the absent declaration of an ALGORITHM) reminds endlessly of my transience;

And my transience IS ME-

In the womb I am a decision- behind the first action, the basic action that is womanhood.

There is no reading about this:

The problems of order, systems of order made unto systems of order, are for themselves, and as such exclude the scrunched lip of the passerby- they extrapolate from them an unrealized intention and fold into them as a torment…

And in the fold there is ruin,
and life conditions for patience in the ruin-
to be greeted with anything ‘other than’ is no different than being granted love in a passing dream;

And in the fold there is hope,
I am conditioned through and through, surely, to become something other than myself.

There is no medication for this-

No return to the unconditioned, or
Escape in the unconditioned,
only Logic in torment for the the significance of the interplay between a slit and a rod,

And the gentle retardation of Women
And the gentle retardation of Man

Made into a choice of scarves and lugnuts.