the ice captured a leaf.
half in, half out.
it’s not collecting it for anything.
it doesn’t even care about the color or shape.
this is just what ice does.
what about you?
“grave danger” is not about the beginning or the end
so what can be dredged?
is the anchor stuck in moss?
growing for years
cracking like bones as i pull it loose
loose, but not free
strands of it still make trails in the deep
illuminating what i’m not supposed to see.
i saw it, just now
and it broke the whole thing.
should have closed my eyes, i guess
everyone’s here, lightyears apart, immersed in the murky black.
reach around until you find a stem.
it might take a long, long time, but don’t stop searching for it. it’s the only thing you have in here.
once you touch it, grab it. then start cleaning it off.
wad the black mud up and push it to the sides.
hollow out a space along it where you can breathe.
follow the stem up or down. keep pulling off the slimy silt.
it doesn’t matter which direction you choose.
both ways go on forever.
you could be escaping a burning building with every belonging in tact
you could be covering a corpse in cement
you could be watching a city crumble into the sea
or following the crack in the wall to the place ants keep coming out
or tearing your coat and skin on a barbed-wire fence
i want to know, but i don’t.
the first was in danger. it kept trying to seem different from itself.
the fourth was troubled. it couldn’t find its own reason to exist.
the second was unprepared. it hadn’t yet pulled itself together when the time came for it to be tested.
the third was strange. no one could reasonably be expected to comprehend it.
i found one
though tomorrow it will be gone
i’ll find parts of you again in many places.
circles inside circles inside circles
patterns of sounds
meaning buried under sound
break the circle with a word
and find a word
inside a word
inside a word
inside a word
now shut up.
we believe we’re made of rocks, or wood—
metal, but never mud—
but it’s something else.
we would be frightened if we understood.
nobody can get a grip on it.
and what we can grasp isn’t really real,
but everybody wants to grasp something.
perceptions are made of idea-pixels.
subtlety gets averaged out into a uniform box of concept-color;
the resolution isn’t very high.
the perceptions are formed without intent.
they’re formed about everything.
they’re formed about you.
if you leave perceptions up to accident,
you could be a god.
more likely you’ll be viscous—
it doesn’t matter if it’s you or not.
well, you may as well not exist.
weeding out what you don’t like
but the reality of you is formed outside of this
your mind trapped within the bounds of everything you’ve ever done
it would be nice if you could pick and choose which realities to delete
the same way you delete embarrassing things you said online
until then, who you say you are is just a layer
until then, i can still see you on the other side
maybe one day between now and then
you’ll wave back
some days feel old, like they’re reused
even though they’re unfolding as new ones.
it’s like they were borrowed;
checked out of the library of days.
the contents of each page dealt at random
from a big deck of cards made up of everything that could happen.
this piece was the precursor to my art breeding experiment.