As soon as I tire of the television,
of its multiplication and division,
of its reproductive glands and antennae,
calibrated to a communion with all that
is banal and starless and without the
pretty anger of aggressive ghosts-
I will set off aflame, asunder from the sofa
my spirit ablaze with spirits spilling through
me like burning nebulae, forward
swimming infernos.
bringing with me
nothing of importance -
only memories of the
positions of a morbid dance -
O, to saunter through
the wet grass which releases from the earth in
clumps into the cow's face like chemotherapy
hair, only to soak up the unwavering nuclear mist of radiation,
and to once more engage with something potent
and vicious, enough of this soft and formless
tranquilized energy I've grown so accustomed
to. I see myself now, staring into the green
glowing eyes of something exhumed and standing
in the graveyard. something having merged
with its disease, satan and god all twisted
together like braiding the boundless hair
of fire and lightning.
water sinking into sand - a wreath of sumac
twisting with stinging nettles.
O, to rub my back upon this, allowing the blisters -
to become a set of clustering lens from
which to understand the visions of
discomfort - a garden of spider eyes
growing from the muscles of my back
to expel this general anesthetic,
fallen to my knees before the train station -
letting the rabbits gather around me,
quitting their fucking and fur grooming
if only for a moment -
to eliminate from me all these drowsy
blood cells.
only if i tire of the television
