i have disappeared from the surface of the earth.
somewhere in some body, my heart shrinks
into a microstate, until it both exists and does not--
amid the cannon boom of self collapsing within self,
as though the only place to resonate
is within within within. i am the folding up of boxes,
a muffled orchestra swathed
in layers of eventide. my self disassembles--
shadows dancing along the walls.
i have spent days
in never-ending kenopsia, thoughts high-tailing
mixed-metaphor streams to some land that is
walled-in streets and concrete jungles.
[i a m c o n t a i n e d
w i t h i n
m y s e l f]
i give life to the fire that flares, feeding it
with soulless canon, heart caught in the throats
of matroyshka dolls. the hearth stretches its womb,
tongue-curling, flames spinning like sufi dervishes
in eternal orbit. and i--i am the onseer
to their dance, watching the way planets
dangle from their hems, never colliding with one another
the way i do.
i would like, one day,
to see the sun for what it is.
when that day comes, the sun will cry to me,
'murder, murderer, murdered!'
and i will wonder who i am.
for if i am a fire, or a shipwreck, or a plank--
i am always in flux, always changing,
always a shadow on the wall
in a childhood fable. i am Carneade's sailor A,
never sailor B.
and i hear Carneades laugh at me.
because sailor A is never a part of the survival ethic;
sailor A is unimportant, an empty vessel,
an object for object's sake.
for i am a fire, a shipwreck, a plank:
my tongue spins
dialectic, as Rumpelstiltskin spins gold.
his object is straw: mine is dust
and its shadows.
the earth has disappeared from me.