An Event of One or Many | I hold a knowing for a tiny time. And knowing what one wants is an awful thing to know. The weight inside me like love wept. Gold skull-stars. Mild me to the maniacal moonchewed red maggot. You who in the light blaze, keen to what in shadows drive, flat the slatest tails of atoms, drench their curved paths in sleazy sunbirths, hollow, everywhere, frozen into shape. I’ve held another knowing as long as I haven’t. To be apart. To be quiescent. To taste your monologues. I swim the seas, waking into some compulsion of vanishment, as to bear the infinitude hanging in from the gyre, and each kiss a crest, until with glass I weep, curling over fenestrations. How hard it is! Let the sun do the dying. Let the vista run the razor ‘cross the brittle brine of sex. Now to ice, new to steam. Dreams, slanted birds on the thermals, cactus tears in mud. Infinitely then, me still waiting; I know no hesitation. It has always been this way. Nowhere to be. Left in the gibbous omnichord, more our fool than my wizard. It is somewhere’s stilted solipsism that the tongue be wicked, surely, but, however perverse, I still know it. Words gutter the vein, and disappear in tender triptychs evincing a secret passage. How easy the tone-mirror, space-vaulted by fault lines or warring gravity, above now and then, burning, in concert with the faces of allies in bled-out misery. Bring me in, O glazier, to speak, better than silence, more windowed than nothing.
A Fiction | You in me. Once this your splice-scream. You at my core. Who gives to him so many valedictorial words when you know not what? And yet knowing what one wants, knowing that the knowledge of this was a horror, or worse, that the horror of knowledge itself was an intolerable restlessness—and to have upon that occasion of want only a suspicion, a feeling, a glimpse, that something of truth had hidden a lie. Sing without breath, as the heart’s sepulchral chant requires, while your anthem is naught but quiet death. With no lines to form, go forth, till the cluster-squabble of yearlings unite to say of something, some offering to honor. Strike, pry and pluck the prostrate, as unto rejuvenate the extinct. Shrive yourself a paean as a merge or a balkage, the soft bade of humours at yonder bend. Symmetries mooshed to grind within one’s slumber, taken off carrion’s star like your head bent back in dream, leering into that inchoate form of communication, inside of wayward pinnacles where the cortis of the montanum is sunfucked, the avalanche lily, sound asleep. And he whose head and lap glows suddenly hot, he who fevered width on a bower, well, he will make with the beasts. For every king, from pansy to primula, an everyday mutinage we perform. Although a conflict it may be, one mustn’t concede to temporal combat. On the falsities we breathe, an illusion or two. Swallow the fig, swallow the worm, swallow the bee, swallow the god! It was pie-eyed fear, this whole picnic, and I always seem to be sleeved in the walm.
An Illusion | The others, not beholden to apotheosis, even the rhythm of the water-wind by evening, the whole of them at best blasé through the vestiges of time, unwind in midnight stubble, and chalk underneath. What has brought these primal longings to life and if I were made anew, would I not quail as a foetus in the womb, or be discouraged by these conditions which are so trying? Unveil my endearments, pursue a language of chance as a doppelgänger of the echo, splooging round the dragways of the bombed-out moon. Let it bloom for the face of expectation. A spritz of my cryoturbated offspring by roll of vam with divine grace. Lunatic redux. Fibula of the snot. Sneeze a beetled diode. Sizzle strums. Cum sun. I know what it is, but after this experiment will I see another, like a gilded ghost and wither at the flashback of my flesh? No matter. Pin the sensation to my body, with little crystals coutured to the skunkholes, paint the squelch in pink slime I spit from my vermillion-petalled arse. This imago made to function outside of the I, and yet nothing, say, as an indefinite dull gusto of the present to which I’d stolen myself, has given the opportunity for reassurance or reciprocity—and so I falter and demand a reprieve. Each reality tracking each passage of long-feigning domain and for now I am separate, vulnerable. Pay my paltry tithes of organic tenderness, conflume in the umbilicus by the rouge crushes of the inverted world!
A Grammar | Episodic. Rarified. Skewed arcs of bubbled fecundity that smear the farm-yard’s glib and girly muzzles. It is nature, surely, they’d forged into the grave of possibility. But then, gracefully glozed, up and down over the edge. Look down. To our line. Wild buddleia. The tropical, whispered-out, dark, neon saliva deltas of velvety bondage, of a prime swath, and being of it. The sand volta. Index. Simile. Biographeme. God. Tussocky dulce et amore. That, marked with our living. Pathos. We took a test and we failed. Like children. Our embers fast aglow and gentle, welped in the most hurried kindle that preceded great stars' ascensions, my carousel rider who extends its hands from a telescopic height. I know your gathering, you who do not know; I know what asperities of grog choke the flytrap, known or not, but perennially agoraphilic, the hairy narcissus with dog’s teeth gleams on dimmed days, wastes its mucky child on what is coughed into the face of holiness, while the still-raging or running waters poison the nations. Barely comprehending my need, retracting against the universe’s heft, scanning the cupped valises of our pet minotaur. He’s safe behind the rim, asleep for now, a fish-out-of-water in his new hometown, the commotion only a sign of anything. No creature, the best of make-believe, can produce such a shout. Pricking my pen upon the maze-side of prickly primroses, I segued by twilight’s greatly splashed rooms, in the blinkered and smileless absence of azure. Nothing could be simpler. There is no screen. In fact I’m puked up on a sandy plain full of ripe bogberries, my salacious vision a grubby emissary to the commonwealth, and the face of the commonwealth was large and ripe and cruel.
A Hypothesis | The enfleurage. The sub-rosa. The molecular nudity. The acid virgins. Their imprimatur. Their hieroglyphicality. Slurred eyes fixed upon the powder keg, flitting past the gleaming epoxy latches, to rest upon a self-enclosing trap. To believe. One to the other, raze their wordless surfac’d rash as I snicker and toggle. Any limit fathomable, insinuative nodules that inflame no pity for one who stands, upon the edge of entropy’s threshold, and frets—whenever I am moved by the neat logic of that curve, in sine sanguis slugged-up with fluid cordials in the teeming gut-tract, with a stratum of cantilever soaked in pleads from wither’d gonads. We drink on silent buzzes, or mewl at sweet moaning balms, or frolic amidst the tell-talements of high mimesis, or parrot divine idioms of the immutable ancients. We nod and flutter and squeeze. We pour and pour. We roll on and we breathe and gasp. Look up. Look below. Arise, Bloom, Embrace. We ride the whoom-hiss on thunder’s skiffs—Ah, the dark spring of being and the lewd surroundings fathom’d deep—and even now death is born blooming, on its broadsides bathed in wee canaries. But here you must drag us out, this is the diem that reveals commencement: the stench of scorched haikus.
A Theory | Fellow quixosis our wonderhoods. Fellow and disseminating cargo of time, who placate our inner riots on collective truce. Fill our lungs from the anus of summer, lilac to the rushtender, oleander to landmine. A revolt you granulate against the resplendent stages, inject’d by the blazing tongue of stars into the water, you lay incursive notes upon my latitudes, and when, even in the depths of the heart, into which all passions are poured, you lay scant and hungering for life’s first touch. Of my every voyage, of my personal matter, of dizziness, comfort, perfume, nudity, of all the permutations of the present. Of mythos, I wondered—if I had gotten ahead of myself. Love in no place is paradise and no dream ever within reach. Love for nowhere is a gravid ghost. You took flight through the slimy oubliettes exploded by penumbras, time in motion, and the mouth a smear that detonated and dumped a gooey milk of flies, which touch over it on one side, and keep it closed-in on the other. I am here and there. I pee in the snow outside under the bloodless bronze trees, lollygag in laments of toothed slips in the farthest margins of the night. I see the flash of phage futures, divine above the route in famine or jilted down in abeyance. I peel our shrouds and swing and then fly and all people sing, the breathless maunder of starry eyes glisten, O, for the loneliness, where you struck a match and all the kites scattered, flowing down the night, the liminal red silk, exposed and open on the mirror of the water. Having forgotten its meaning, we’re dreaming in rhyme, and the more we dream, the faster we’re falling, and the faster we’re falling the faster we rise. For what and whence would this be any other way but now, where and how, my wretched marble hour. I know, yes. I sip to be numb, gack off a gash and knell over the regoliths. There’s no logorrhea of ritual. So some pray from honey-hole to life, in the leche of sweet-meadow time, delighting in what had naught of worth for human hands to scrounge over, until that day. I’m laying eggs in the drain of humectants. There’s nowhere to go now but home—any home at all.
A Contradiction | When, with feeling, as if it’s my own, I am where you were, with you here, and then I, in order not to lose, revel in the pulsing wattles of the xylem. Electrons, imperfections, indiscernible, excited by new unspeakably harsh dreams. Earthwise, from the vain demand of penury, the apprentice watches. Our flesh wild and we ebb and flow and more the whole while, this primordial buoyancy, half-tide-half-breeze, has us waiting, singing, the world rising on high to meet us, and we stroll through grooved glories for heaven to see and rampage and gather, our light so disturbed we can’t shift shape. Elsewise over landscapes, I sutured upon the first howl of erasure, I waded at dawn into the delicious treacle of dark strands, my savaged spilled-out skull and the stellar sandfire that takes our breaths, all this reeks of fall-swooning beyond the free-span, of which speaks the cobra-silk with bisyllabic trills, sighs into the wavy cloud-form of molecules, down, up, open, leering past the lipless subedges, along the slender cavity of gene-edited microbe frames, up past the instant yellow obliquity by clingy cockleburs, the bay glows bright with rings of light, beacons to shore, lake, lagoon, et al., isthmus letted of the rush of this-and-then-that, meandering river, slough, stream, etc., seconds breathlessly turn into minutes, hours, days, years across dark and vaster waters, dynamic currents gathering and demarcating, leashed with relish in heretofore unknown forms of fate, running, rising, gushing, the riveting fluency and violence of change transmuting the spark as it purrs and lashes from within the hydrologistic surge, and the ache and ache of destiny excretes in brief escapes, and the magician is nobody’s dream come true, and all of the world’s dead are suddenly alive, the swift glimpses, so rare, so intense, roaring, swelling, flooding, churning, crashing, that are then on and on, and in what company—it’s almost never us and it’s always already us—in such an odd place, why then and when, as of now and ever and for what?
by David Leo Rice
... Things wore on, year by year, for the couple, until the moment came ...
THIS IS KING
by Charles J. March III
... Then Jesus saved sour wine, saying, THIS IS KING ...