Godself

I summoned my godself last night.
She was of adventitious frame,
gilded in hippocampi,
the sororal All of
Hermetic name.

Inside, rolled upon herself — she and I were intertwined.
Bedfellows, in one body.
She said, “Remember that time?”

I knew myself awake in her.
She pressed our hand into the sheet to prove a
thought we never had. “It’s real, now,”
she concealed. “Can your archangels do that?”

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

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Headlines

I was thinking about touching the light
that touched the sidewalk
that touched the squinting faces
of Abrahamic patriarchs, light
that now fell upon half-lidded
undergraduates in a caffeinated daze
on a mazy day in the simplest place
in the world, an altar in a valley
in a library.

I was thinking about how far away
I was from the headlines yet
the hearsay was here, only I wasn’t there —
not with the “dozens of snakes dumped in
an Arkansas Walmart parking lot,”
not where they decreed that
“saturated fat was not the devil,”
not when “the world’s last male
northern white rhino joined Tinder
to find a mate.”

I was thinking about how in leaving
this sanctum of damaged denim and
unwoven eye contact I would be forced
up into the light, into the beam that
encapsulated the paradisiacal serpent
and Esau in his gluttonous rage
and The Rhinoceros of Versailles
as he paced his marble menagerie.

I was thinking,
but the light made
hazy prophets
of the newsworthy,
and here I was walking
in low LED, looking down
upon the ticker line.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

Cage-Free II

plucked from down of
giantess, marked by
viral fingerprint

as an unintended
nucleus of crumpled avian stock,
soon set to Styrofoam

sitting among a dozen
sound, a dozen round
and weighty, waiting

in all entirety, until
forced to collapse quietly,
taking in the break of keratin

and vacuuming air and
unconscionable
sunlight, and then

trailing the totality,
slavering as what was certain
looses at the seams

left hugging
in desperation
to the negative space:

a plaster cast, a non-portrait
of unfertilized yolk and runny
meringue, an unlikeness

holding against the light,
all membrane
and concavity

the kidnapped afterbirth
of the cage-free,
stinging the thief’s cast-iron

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

What I Do Not Know

bees rumble, and maybe they speak
in tongues to one another,
but despite the conversation,
they fly

days cycle, and maybe if not for
refracting light, all time would be
illegitimate, and waking in
dark would suffice

sleep ponders, and maybe it is a form
of dying, these lucid
systems of equations
that paralyze one’s
bloodstream

mothers wrangle, and maybe the braids
they twist are testaments
to living up to sons, to tightening
porose minds of
feminine truth

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

What I Know

I know that all voice is metal,
cutting blade
until the tongue softens its edge,
and in saying this, I seem to
only know of auditory
things — what else is there?
To see is to allude, in suggestion
I know the colors crawl,
but to speak is to make sense
of veins in rock, of
lustrous ore, not yet formed,
to break the leaf of
indeterminate ingot and
weave gold from its bedlam.
What else is there but crushing
noise, those atoms in their
offended chase,
that we, in a feat of muscle
and stringy vibration,
master?

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

Manichee

I met a
Manichee of vulpine gaze
who squatted in a shadow still,
his nose pointed at the light,
a sentry testing the dichotomic
air.

He spoke of
bracing gums and betting souls
on a darkness that was six inches
thick, that tasted of hailstone,
not of hell, and could be pinched
like fallen snow.

I asked
if he could cross the line
and put his face into the light —
but he raked his fingers in mounds
of night and showed me
the underside of his
blackened nails.

He denied
that where he sat was in theory,
and raved that I should be hungry:
“All material is reality, yet
you think I can move through
her polar will.”

He said, and I
did not hear him breathe,
“I am incarnate; this shadow
is loathe to let me be. And so
I will keep my watch of light
until her origin purges me.”

© 2017 Stellular Scribe

No One Knows

looking feels forced to
me, as if in
crossing glances
i am
the violator
of my neighbor’s
privacy and
the interloper
of his misery.

contact is cruelty
especially
when unbidden
by my
imperfect eyes
and his
dragonfly pupils
that dart
to sweeter nectar
still.

i look away,
my shoulders hunch,
and i fold in,
a flytrap
unused to sight
as I taste
the exoskeleton
that could’ve
been.

© 2017 Stellular Scribe