blood ingress

i stand at the ingress of time
to see
that which shines
most obliquely
you, the winter one

tragic asymptote
infinitely in proximity
but never meeting
the curve of my
absolute truth

i am a body
to touch

have we met before?

the distance between (us)
is inexplicable, fathoms of horizontal blue there are skies between us–

the tips of (fingers) fully
wings of a winged animal
measured in meted evers

you (angelic) are the eucharist
and the euphony
evangelizing in a conflux
of lachrymal, damnable love

i taste black plum
blood sweetness in
conjunct, the chalice of
your spirit
it’s thicker than
congee the consanguinity



what worlds will
come about
about when
you rise from the star?

human instinct at
the center
of everything how
to be speechless
i am you are

when you gaze: an unknown
species of brown
indecipherable, lexical
color that speaks

i know without knowing
all your turns
some symphony of absolute blood
kinship by lip of knife

and this nuance of complexity
touches the water sound;
when, with fingers, you evoke,
I feel
the complexion of phenomena
in roses,
(their material medium is
color philosophy
by revolutions unforgettable)

blossom your hymn a big sky
that threads a
through me (no clouds, bottomless)
blue-silver sun
fulsome vow of tone;

somehow you know
my latent self, hex me
speaking of
mysterious paradoxes;
of gods as singularity


what taxon of silk human ilk
are you? maybe, you are
the first
creature, sleek; phylum: of angels
i speak your ancestral name
aloud to conjure,
to awaken your impossible
i fail to speak your
tonal rune, but
you say it (your power,
your cogent name) sounds
as perfect as anything that
has ever
when it falls fruit
from my foreign, ruined

that is perhaps
why it can only be
i look like i am
ready to fall to my death
in your arms

why i’d happily
go to hell
in an autumn basket
(after the tradition of
small, fatally curious
to behold the cradle
you are finally and mysteriously
the intransigent beautiful

you are weft right
(left like artifact of wings)
beneath my lung
and my breath catches (flutters)
from the tightness of
the peignoir’s bind


beyond the sacrum                              (what of sanctity?)
in humans                                                  or devils or–
at the end of                                                      life?
the tenebrous,
the column
the coccyx
articulates with bone magicians:
coven paleoanthropologists

people knowers
whose fusion
to existential terminus
begets portmanteaux:
blends of heirloom soul
and present time

the nonbinary remains
are erosional sculptures
of stone cum smoke,
built into
minarets of allegory
so come and pray

until the inexpiable
of legerdemain symbols
is naked in extremis
illumined in bas-relief


paranormal extradition

expedites the expatriate


into                  countries

of former identity

returning to return

is a foreign service

that makes one’s life

                 (neé eternity)

foreign to


am ready to enact

operandi, modus of syntactic malfeasance i hold the bleeding hemisphere of an incomplete thought the cleanly incised

                     brain is exposed:

psychic and

i disrupt systems by existing in white /ulterior interior/


secret: keep it ulterior: interior of the ultima
(of your name) is
penultimate flame
anterior to            final fire

i found a
secret compartment for
the anterior time:
there are
boxes of god

it takes space to build

city planners gentrify
blueprints of a creator
delineate the boundaries
of the ghetto
in an attempt to
to keep the ancestral deities
quiet and jesus

not for free

love is “an infinite

causal series whereby

each element in

the chain


here and now

dependent on

the one antecedent

to it” proximum est ut

(+subject, and the subject is love)

love the antecedent is the house next door

before love

was love, perennially

Hannibal of Carthage took refuge after his defeat, even the gods fall to Graves see the tomb of the Ptolemies

it’s time to grow up (of meadows, fields) it’s time to be covered (e. g., with flowers) 

in Latin, the tax collector

and the prostitute

are called by the same holy name (for they are loved)

you see the pseudothyrumi (hidden door)

to the place of séance, to the nearest

curse of love

is cost







⌈ “as a convention, ⌉

an object’s image is said to be

at this (x) location

⌊ behind the mirror.”⌋

⌈ hidden from view,

the secret self the Id— ⌋

¿if a material (being?)

is opaque to the light, such

as the

d a r k

animal Id I’d hide



ego human and superego

god I’d perfect to avoid

an image

that is successively dark-


“the image of the object is the same size as the object.” how small am i?



“the image formed

(of Pygmalion with statue

or god with Adam from dust)

by light rays

that appear to come together

(in matrimony)

at the image rendezvous

behind the mirror

but never really do

(things fall a p a r t)  when fall is ≠ ∞

not equal to infintity; tone quality, on finite things. it is an anagram

a virtual image. 

a virtual ∞ (alt num lock 236)

a virtual image of infinity; alternate [universes] num[erous endings] lock[ed doors] 2 [people] 3 [is a crowd] 6 [66 the devil’s in the military detail]

a mage of verses, roses

rural finery

a virtual image can never be displayed on a physical plane (dreams)


“the other side,

where light rays do

not exist–

and where virtual images

are formed–         is called

the b↓

ac->ks- i de,backside

b-acks-↓                                             ck^

i-↓                                     a^

d->     e,          b^

of the mirror                              ɿoɿɿim ɘʜɈ ʇo ɘbiƨʞɔɒd ɘʜɈ

souls go here. and

the things the cannot

e x i s t

on the physical plane                      they go HERE too.


“when the (beloved) object is at the focal point, the image (of love) is infinitely far to the left and therefore not seen, as indicated in (b).”

but “when the object lies (naked) between the focal point and the mirror (this page is a surface for an angle of incidence light touch down on the) surface,

the image forms again, (turn, be love)

only now it becomes

virtual and upright (like a pop-up book)

as shown in (look and) (c)”



black out (if i’m honest)


the rachis;

the distal part of the axis

of a feather shows stem cell white;

conspectus of angel conceptus

and the immortal adnexa (unveiled:


anatomical organs of a genus

of prickly shrubs,

the leaves pinnate,

corollas fleshy human and

proximal to the dais

of gestation; goddess light).



zero; i adjust the sights of a firearm to hit the point aimed at–a target having no magnitude or quantity–the metrical foot, the trochee

v a c a n t

having no modified inflectional form.



at zero hour, the observatory duty scientist watches luminaries

pointing NASA’s Swift telescope at a singular swath of sky

in search of the theorist’s holy chalice:

flashes of x-rays and ultraviolet light indicative of a wrinkle in the universe.

black holes swallowing dead stars.

i saw a romance of person;

mysterious events set in a remote time and place; Einstein’s general theory of relativity foretelling the pyroclastic flow deposits

of her fallout

the federal bureau of investigation’s most wanted

colliding in spacetime

with systems of white supremacy and suspicion:

Angela Davis on trial for collusion in a titillating murder case charged with political valences.

i look like her. fear me.

formed in the image of a black panther party member, my flesh and its historically subversive adnexa conjures

the government’s institutional memory of

an all black branch of the communist party; of militant resistance

(for a limitless time at all times resistant)

against police brutality; against extrajudicial terrorism


and so, this is the reason

why eyes follow me. my past life is

why i can’t buy a candy bar in peace.

the cashier’s afraid i’ll steal the status quo

and exact a revolution.



this is my prayer:

i will not be your negro.

“Negro Slain By Texas Posse: Victim’s Heart Removed After His Capture By Armed Men”

the real headline is this:

in order to kill me

you’d have to kill me in every permutation, iteration of

all time existence

i’ve ever been manifested in.

lynching is not enough.



i wrap my head like Congresswoman Ilhan Omar; Somalian angel who wears her hijab like a diadem. a map of the horn of Africa floats on a backlit screen: the central intelligence agency has an online fact book. a black star denotes where Mogadishu unfolds. i see her like i see my father.

complicity and the axis of spin, that rachis on which tangential velocity spirals, twirls like the finger of a goddess touching secret countries–that is the revolution of quiet that allows the CIA to back death squads in lush Ayiti.

orchids of state terror bloom from fertile ebony loam. fifty tons of cocaine (worth one billion dollars) paint the Haitian military regime thunderbolt gold.

secret files contact the dead; speak of Duvalier in whispers, saying,

“he is ‘Papa Doc’ the virtual personification of a voodoo god; to the country’s overwhelming negro population, he has shown himself to be anti-mulatto (i am in awe of the menagerie of

disgusting, divisive

incarnations of jim crow’s one drop

red, tear shaped


and a devotee of black supremacy.”

the special operative called us negroes; thought it odd that we’d think ourselves divine; spoke of the communist threat. i read the agent’s special report, eyebrow cocked convex, thinking fuck this son of a–

Ayiti: near apartheid, tensions viscous between the noir and the subtly mixed; in Papa Doc’s palace auspices glint wetly on coils of goat entrails;

president for life,

vodou spirit Lwa of the dead and his tontons macoutes (the bogeyman) were:

gang; cult; secret police; fascist militia

power: raping; extorting; murdering at will

with a cold (in cold blood) grip.

and the vampire of the Caribbean selling blood by the bag

dealing human body parts;

while mad max mutilated the genitals of political prisoners.

slavery made us brutal



“our Doc,

who art in the national palace,

hallowed be thy name.”

he revises the lord’s prayer.

he rides in a bulletproof Mercedes limousine,

raining money on the people; bankrolls

fall from heaven (our Doc

who art–)


he decapitates a man. the severed head

holds secrets

that can be divined

from blood. the brain will

tell Doc what he wants to know

because he is a god–


when Papa Doc dies, the US is afraid that Fidel Castro will see the witch doctor’s daughter, see

that she is tempestuous beautiful

an emerald window glowing across the sea

calling in low tones to Cuba.



there was an idiot

who called my country

island of the damned.

we are free. we revolted

against the French.

our land a mystery

like naked bodies behind a magic cloud.

the jungle. the starved look to us

for consumption. they want to see

the cannibals;

the blood spilled everywhere

(where is the bleach

for the kitchen tile?) dripping;

hearts sawed

out of stiff bodies, the pink muscle somehow

still beating

with black fire, witchcraft, magic.

the watchers,

they are the cannibals.

oh, the poor refugees.

fuck you.

you’ve failed

to see

the politics of magic.

you are so easily seduced by

blood sacrifice, by brown

bodies, by unrest

large enough to rip timespace.

you are the one running from yourself and thanking god hail mary for the wretched of the earth in this fun episode of escapist media consumption.









dark s*

after — de nocte

in the — (i.e. secretly) clam et occulte

i love, am loving

to love

* meaning substantive

i loved, i have loved

(having been) loved


(of time) i am to be i was have been am about to be in love

abhinc annos centum a hundred years ago i was in




cruelty                                                                                                                                to expose (a child to die); 

in damnation                                                                                                                       to leave (a corpse) unburied;

foolish                                                                                                            to turn down (an offer) 

animam abicere to give up (this) life

to disappear from sight;

die; (of time) to pass, elapse; to chrysalis

change, be changed;

to go to hell!

for a hidden, abstruse secret of incest


after dark in the dark secretly i love am loving to love substantively i loved i have loved (having been) loved (of time) i am to be i was have been am about to be in love abhinc annos centum a hundred years ago i was in love. cruelty to die in damnation, corpse unburied, foolish. sin: to expose a child to die (i am that child), to leave a corpse unburied (i am), to turn down an offer (of marriage?), animam abicere to give up this life and go to hell for a hidden, abstruse secret of incest.


when artisanally executed, the praxis of cipher existence escapes the sagacity of high order mystagogues. unseeable. it’s being a witch’s familiar to the senses; it’s a cacosmia that melts the eyes in their sockets; it’s a white vibrissae, a whisker catching the last dust of damask roses–dust whose osmagogue composition brings notes of burning soul to your nose (have you seen a soul cooked like a Peking duck? the flesh crispy? you hide that.)–yes, that’s what being invisible is all about.

if i am naked to even nakedness (that agathokakological political state which unfurls beneath Yggdrasil of mythic Eden)–then,

now you see me (clothes on)

now you don’t (clothes off).

if i am naked, i am disgusting. if i am naked, i am censored. i can hide my soul in plain sight. you don’t need to look at me unless i am getting fucked. in that case (the instance of fucking) i am fit to be seen and had like Peking meat. i hope your eyes melt, the flesh rendered to sumptuous grease, empty eye sockets smoking, glossy lips dripping like apples in Eden, choking on the invisible




Dark at 8


i stood at zero dark of aphelion, and beheld–

altocumulus at altitudes almighty. i went to the clouds to see the cobalt blue devil that lives in a vanilla orchid.

i asked her: to die, what does it mean?

“no;” she said, “the exodus, the taking away is the equinox of death and life: both”

is that the meaning?

“occur on a single day; and that day is an entire human lifetime. the season of fatal dark and final light is a candle: out it goes.”

so I ask, can you take a soul without killing it?

“that is a question for the haruspex.”


supernumerary finalities move the Ouija planchette towards existential ground zero.

what is your final fantasy?

what is the onus of ending?

weightless the world was a fogbound cathedral of English chalk downland; a white tellurian lacuna vanishing in fluid tides of time. superior to the world were towering gelid sarsens of ice; the jettisoned moraines that lie supine in a sarcophagus of quiet propinquity with the omphalos of the world. you had a book of stone, an incunabulum in utero of time. the oeuvre of existence was bivouacked in the fabulist finger of a goddess; and she wrote the saga of humanity’s existence in a stone baetylus.


can a world–never to return–be turned on Pygmalion’s metamorphic axis of persuasion? can it be seduced from the underworld; and coaxed into making a circumstellar pivot? or pushed into the orbit of messianic materialization?

i’ve never seen an irretrievable planet retrograde in a protracted devolution towards inceptive grace. i want to see my stolen star, Venus, accelerate from exnihilo to rebirth. the appreciable traces of starlight can’t reach you at the opaque apex; your evolutionary anterograde towards optimal, final dark is inexorable.

your flight path is an irresistible slime creep towards sidereal summits.

look at the long torque of time, and her interplanetary revolution: she tears her glance from nadir antiquity–the south pole of existence–to look beyond the cloud gods, and what she can tell on her abacus is your infinite altitude within soluble time.

she’s looking at your heights (and by she, I mean Time): you levitate above your glyph like an umlaut; and your umlaut bleeds as if those two zeppelins (mere dots) were divots made by vampire fangs.

and so that is why she, and I, and the whole world, are looking at you. you’re the most beautiful irretrievable thing.


look at the way time turns

to the person who waits on it for

the impossible resurrection

of love’s apotheosis; the minutes are indifferent, and divvy fate with smooth, unhurried hands. i swear, what will be, will be, no matter what we make of it.

when i get what i want from you it will be years too late. what will i do with a message from the graveyard all spun out in type on foxed, delayed telegram paper?

i know what: i’d track down your last known address, run down to your house, and see if we could buy our ragged lives back. upon learning you were really, truly dead, i’d empty the penny jars to purchase your soul. i’d dig up your grave with rivers sluicing down my face. i’d pull out the dismembered limbs of love, and sew them back together; and i’d stir up the dust and years like pale light falling as gingerly as maple leaves;

i’d leave the days of humanity behind in this our moonlit autumn

for another cipher existence, some place out of time’s flight path, and all because you wrote me. do you hear that? i’d do the digging all because i was summoned by a dead girl whose magic i can’t shatter, not even with the crowbar of ceaseless age. and who can tell how the years will pivot, or what life will yield for the sylph’s among us?


unforgettable and

i keep you on a planetary carousel: my orrery; the apiary of subsonic minutes is silent when you are caught in the loop of my uroboros. below the submontane strata, the clockwork is broken; the time is not ticking; and the celerity of solar systemic processes slows; the light-years cease; the pilgrimage of planets–their orbit–abides in prayerful repose; and i, clasping the Aquarius clepsydra of all refluent time, hold you frozen at the serac–i’m unable to relent you, my cacoethes, my sin.

when i have you caught in my anfractuous hoop, the cloud buffs roll off the sheer promontory; and there it is–love’s fecundity waiting like an ocean of eights; because, eight is the signifier of eternity. eight never ends.






Truth Values

Hey, Guys! ❤

I’ve been on hiatus for two years. I’m currently living in Micronesia. I have blue hair now, haha! I’ve missed blogging, and interacting with you guys. So, here’s a new poem.


Truth Values

the unit of power, the valence of red

when it is present in racemose inflorescence–that

truth value is

incalculably able to confer

immunity after the tradition of

winged scarabs


my predilection for premonition shows me sonar *

* *bell tones in

* * *an ocular dazzle of apple liquor blips and Merlot phosphenes. Arresting color

seizes me; !!!

and i

am poised t-

o  relinquish all

structural integrity–to crumble to decubitus at the door to your wor(l)ds.

the circumflex, that caret which ascribes a rising-falling tone to every word of meaning, holds mystique by the calyx until ultramicroanalysis renders the whole flower corolla as Lucifer who fell from Venus the star; the devil and the petals fall down

in rich, life-like textures of sound hue.

the photorealistic transcription of starched, chevron creases in your vocal cadence; and the heady dimensions of the nexus color–

color wrought of tertiary synaloepha and the exponent of evocation–these stereophonic tinctures cameo as the rubicon on your tongue: you won’t do it.

here comes the (mounting symphonic) moment

in which the manifestation of spring is an inverted corymb; sweet animus of soul

and the golden interior


a truth value whose abstract specifications are made definite so that there are no questions of meanings, no probes searching for the contents of inscrutable semantic glyphs.

no; even

when faced

with zenithal negation, there is just:

suffusion of spring; daisies from the tumulus; and the incomparable psychological phenomenon of sudden and fatalistic love.

a god soft palate

i loved you once,

in the coagulated moment of

all my past lives.


blood is a math that ages much;

the way people do, it deepens

in body and color

on a years long journey

of polymathy

up a god soft palate.



i’ve turned mecca gold, i’m painted in

calculus grace. it’s so nice to see you (and your fucking Windsor tan eyes)

again. i keep meeting you even though

we’ve n(ever) met; we

seem to be hex-trapped in a tetragon of entangled fates and in this millisecond i pledge a melodramatic bitch’s scarlet oath that i’ve met you at least a chiliad times and it’s absolutely dizzying like January snow in Syracuse.