Everything here is carnal, souls vetted to survive fire-bombings, night raids, annihilations of love. Whom shall we trust, what camaraderie exists? Truth or dare. No one creates beauty here; desire nothing. War is no beautiful thing. Not a curative. Truth: girl once said to me, your body is designed to heal alone. Algal sea fog rolling every noon is no remedy for nostalgia. No, this is not a pleasure— nothing is holy in this world. Dare we inhabit the post-human, a fractal ebb and flow of lymph and laser. Bless our given bodies without reprisal or regret: borders we crossed as youth, invisible at a distance when the fog lifts: no longer home. Toxic compass rose of exile, carcinogenic, blooms. The land under our soles exudes a bluing perfume, notes of a failed paradise, of undocumented flight from zone to sanctuary: exiles fleeing to the allure of citizenry acquired by sea, by flood, by fire, by war.
Dear America, Love
Dear America, love –
Before I fell asleep last night, a double-star conjunction shone so blindly, I fished it out of the west
with a rag of spider silk lost by the woolly bold jumper. Please fix my bandwidth so I do more sensible things.
Your skyscrapers, after falling, are going up, jagged scapes in a nanosecond,
scaffolded and reconstructed as smoke. Millennium of burned, hairless marigolds, of cataclysmic seaquakes, grenades
and dazzling insects not lasting the night: we grant ourselves permission for intimacy, for freedom to choose
whom we love while on earth even if we do not love whom we ought.