And the air bends
in slow arcs
with a Midas touch
It’s murder at the gallop.
Every gust is a minefield
gilded with potential to explode.
How do I explain this feeling,
as I watch the sun die again?
With a Venn diagram
of irrational nonsense?
With another pointless poem?
In a Godless universe, one must
have something to genuflect to.
I’ve chosen you to soften my knees to…
And so Irrelevance has become my religion.
This struggle
This relenting
Forever nursing my stillborn desires
“Sooner murder an infant in its cradle…”
But I say fuck Blake.
I can’t.
Why can’t I?
What is this willful submission?
This infinite clock strike?
This eternal shudder at
the bell rung?
Your distant echoes ripple
through this cave I’ve become, forcing
my mouth wide open, pouring
the burrowing dirt
the rivering stars into me.
I am pliant and drowning in faded twilight.
How many dimensions in your space have already
impregnated me? There are winds that feel
like my wandering sons.
Will you recognize me, man of the air, from
the multiverses of you I absorb?
You who are the root, stem, and
blossom of my battlefield’s swords?
Time’s two hands intertwine
holding its pen like a bloody knife
scrawling over your spill of sand
furiously scribbling lines
whose borders I can’t cross
in the cartography of my want.
Why this endless hesitation?
Open yourself to me.
I am not the night.
I am limited in my space.
I am a fountain of water.
I am an instrument of light.
Let my host dissolve
On your tongue.
Break my bread.
Be my transubstantiation.
Give me new life.
Closed Captioned For The Thinking Impaired 