the words she uttered,
marked by a fine soot, scribed themselves
on the inside of my sore ribs;
with wrist and finger adroit,
it burned off the serifs
i had used to write myself down
as something utterly known.

i stood there, before her - before myself -
dross coating my feet, altered
by this strange medicine.
naked and sparse and
unknown, chiseled
before her strokes, i am.

it will
hold and
i will heal.

i am light. i am night. i am writefuckingwrite.
take my bones, ******. take this skin, ******. HERE, take my name, ******, i
still. am. i still
am.

i still write. i write i write.
my ribs are ledger. they hold up my awe.
but my thoughts s p i l l
into the gut, where they churn hard.
my accidents birth cosmoses.
my self-hate wills supernovas.

i am not yours. i breathe, alone, i am being. unseen strings
strung from my fingertips: i manipulate gods.
i fear no god of yours. your book is finite. my writs are
i n f i n i t e.

feel the inside of my femur there you will find my fire calligraphic
it is rune i am ancient babble stone megalith cut from monolith i am

in the beginning was
a single distinct conceptual unit of language,
and the single distinct conceptual unit of language became fist

and ******
all the things,
like a total
****.
and all the things
were sad.

his typewriter is silent
and tombstone;
mine is
nonexistent, and
never was. instead
all i have is this ******* device.
all it effing knows is
silence.

blinking c u r s o r
stares at me,
waiting, whitely, like some
bad god scrubbed good with a new book.

jus thought I'd
let you
know,
*******

me? stuck
inside this, t h i n g,
inside my
skull,
the size of two consecutive fists;
it won't stop
slinging thoughts thoughts thou g h t  s. you?

star shaker in the night,
won't you shake some stars
to
night?
   t u r n
my silent invocations bright:
    this, my hid wōnt,
     urn
of awe
in wounded flyte,
till it glows, again, in palm alight.