step into the hallway
black curtains in the dark
set down the key
a drop of dye in the ink pot
pour a glass of water
a mirror with nothing to reflect
curl up in a chair
a tunnel at the bottom of a well
I know this is your house
are you home?
the code unwinds into branches
the lines unfurl into leaves
the edge creeps across the expanses
with each little spark it receives
unfolding in every direction
all sensing and being and birth
then it cracks under guise of protection
and disease spreads across the whole earth
it shudders and cries
it shrivels and dies
and rotting it hangs into space—
but the meaning will not be erased.
a mind imitates itself
sometimes badly; sometimes well
imitation is iteration
the loosest imitations are the biggest iterations:
the longest leaps into versions more advanced
the tightest imitations are nearest to stasis:
resistance to a shift taking form as replication
the most well-controlled hand attempts to trap time
but it only traps itself.
there’s a witness in the woods
there’s a tyrant on the train
there’s a king beneath the cave that’s holding everyone we think’s insane
no weapons for the women
no fuel for any fire
no water, food, or shelter; those are figments of desire
meanwhile blood is in the basin
there’s mosquitos in the milk
slugs are up and down the stairways
and their slime is smeared across the top of all your most expensive silk.
at first it gives and through the night it gives and gives some more
and finally you start to wonder if it’s keeping score
for how much it can give away against what it receives
maybe trying to achieve the highest rank before it leaves?
it starts to get tired
it starts to get sick
it’s going to need some help from somewhere else real quick
you try to feed it love but it won’t drink a single drop
you give it time and care and blood and bones and never stop
you give and give and through the night you give and give some more
and finally you realize that you are keeping score
for how much you can give away against what you receive
you’ll be fine as long as it’s not less than nothing when you leave.
the one who sees the most is the most unseen
the one who sees the least is seen the most: at least, proportionately
so if you see more will you be seen less—or is that only how it seems?
He ripped himself out by the roots
and planted himself in my hands.
I held him as gently as I could
but no matter what I tried, he withered.
So instead of watch him die,
I put him back in the ground.
I’d rather have nothing
than something I can’t keep alive.
Infinite stakes; infinite pawns
Infinite cradles; infinite lawns
Infinite messes and infinite spills
Infinite torture and infinite kills
Memory‘s meaning and meaning is mind.
The burn of the shadow that you leave behind
Even hidden in lies through which no one could see
Still made smoke and made fire that left scars on the tree.
casually blowing off the dust of dreams
clearing cobwebs left by vague visions
shaking away fragments of feeling
replacing it all with new nothingness
a nothingness worth more to them
than the seeds of everything
remember this tomorrow.
it’s not exactly a note for you, or even a sign.
are you getting this?
it’s here, being here.
remember this tomorrow.
it might not even be a transmission at all.
are you out there?
it doesn’t really matter either way; it’ll still be here if no one ever notices.
but then again, maybe it won’t.