Anterograde

1

There's an inevitable
preamble to every morning: the shriek
from a soundless planet
reaching
back around;
ancient echoes.

I'm tired
of chasing
my own song.

Through Socratic discourse,
crossing off every
possibility . . .
I realize I'm not a fissure
spilling light into the sum, I am not
anyone
but a blur
that splits into an ant fire,
crawling and
needling
your perfection.

All I'll ever be:
a pulse
of movement,
ganglia
dangling
outside a clothesline dimension;
just a numskull
with cartoon
extremities.

It is the inkwell
of infinitude
I fall into. Look,
we have a barbiedoll
for a deity
and similes
for souls
so why do we need
the touch
of another ghost?

2

I seem to push myself
out of my killing sleep,
back through those bloody walls
again and again

to birth and murder and cherish
every terrible sequence of miracles
until Shiva tires of cutting me down,
having no more cherub worms to feed,

and stops
reincarnating
the tongue,
hoping
one morning
it will speak
and finish
that final prayer,
the psalm
which always
seems
to turn up
dead
in the womb.

3

In the interim,
I am here;
filthy
and possible,
some worthless gambit,
the tearpath of dust.

I will dream it all away,
every single free and eternal moment
until I can liquefy
back into the glut;

The frenetic paws that dug me
out from that spot of cold space
will start again,
or not;

What does it matter (to you)?
And what will I do (to you)
before I turn (into you)?

4

I scavenge for a machine
that will sing for me.
I should start this last day
unlearning everything.

Wisdom
is the end
of needing
(you).