first the plotted course was all filled in like a moat with water but one which wasn’t meant to have water at all. Then I read the words inscribed on my own skin which were like this poem I haven’t written yet:
in the display
of leaping light
& the moon & the angle of it inside of night gave me the courage to askew sleep in favor of what? taking my bicycle around the edge of gleaming water. but all this means nothing without context, let me take my words back and retrieve them because this is all hearsay, and in it, without it, I’m saying nothing.
light leaping of
now, I’m backwards. the retreat of calm into frenzy, sometimes a slalom like this allows us to find a beginning. where the birth was the frenetic blast of space opening its caverns wide, and space was a sequined nightmare atop the blue-black stars accelerating through dusk. dusk is where the sun never sets. a sun which plays with its eyelids smiling like a captive bush. a bush is one which is on fire with its blossoms nocturnal. and I remember now I haven’t given a poem. only words which deteriorate into sudden exposure. I wish I could write without exposing but this is impossible. writing is a cut across the mouth blossoms of an impossible flower. which bears teeth purplish-white and the nylon searing nightingale screech which is both plastic and vinous. I write a poem by playing with the landfill where the single ant crawls lonely. and he finds a home inside an aluminium cave where the seconds ignite into lifetimes. he lives a life over and over before I know how to speak my first word which is: twinkling. my first word which is the sudden sizzling of a pool of lukewarm water. inside the sink which now exists inside the kitchen which was a blindness of futures. all of this has already been. I cannot write a poem yet because it will never become what it was meant to be. what cuts open is the leaf angling itself against a concrete column, drying in the rain.
first the plotted course was a flood and not anything near a castle or even a house which lights up with crucifix-shaped windows so that one can look out but not be looked upon. inside the shadows play games on their tables which have drawn-on legs so as to distract us with perspective from their flatness.
and knotted it all up
a good thing would be to look on the reflection in the puddle which led me here and think: this is a collection of rainwater. which will not move, not for a short while. but somewhere within, there is movement, and it is only that I cannot see it that allows the night to continue without darkness. it is only by this crescent shaped sentence that I see I am looking at nothing at all.