Every time I think I am writing a novel it turns into a script, and every script transforms itself into a poem. During these confusing times, I am abundantly confused. In a vibrantly translucent manner, what I have written undergoes a process to return to its origins. Eventually all my words will be inscribed on stone walls with ashes and spit and animal fat. Until then, all my poems turn into BIOs.
COUNTRIES CLUTCH THEIR BORDERS
Maps are patched together like the ethereal bodies
of stain glass saints with
caulking around their organs.
We embrace Time’s enormous flatulent body.
The past is afraid to be here.
Thought is a thistle. All the border guards live in one booth.
EVENTUALLY THE DREAM LIKE A PILL DISSOLVES INSIDE THE SLEEPER
Small quantities of dream are lodged in the head. We know this
because burning birds fly through the sky. While the same dream
flows through a hundred heads, the Grandmother sews the sad colors
to the frightened colors. When we connect a generator to the head,
it lights up the whole dead town, illuminating the perilous and twisted.
When she looks up to the sky, the Grandmother sees slashes of light.
THAT’S WHEN THE DEAD START DANCING
Swimming in the thick elements of time,
we eat the worm and throw away the apple—
hunger and strangeness metabolizing.
The world smells of sweet sawdust; it takes a deep
breath and waits at the end of the exhausted dirt road.
That’s when we realize we’ve always been dancing.