be become

be, become

there is that one–indivisible–

incomparable in solitude

of soul polarity

pulling ingot beautiful, no

doubt effortless-


why borealis wa-

ves when

there is you

i don’t know

the dyadic supernatural, two

of us in which the worlds fail


for you, for your beauty phenotype

to be, become

it takes a thousand millennia

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

the devil’s lament


what gives a magnet

its magnetism? some-


intrinsic in its matter

that polyglot of latent


something lucid in the dark mirror

and twisty, angled like mal magic.


i wake interior to the devil coil into his slough body arms inquest up length of supple shirtsleeve flex the lissome forensic flesh acme power wear his ossified bones make him specious female fall as tangential comet trail for

an amalgam of angel, 

a luminary cabal of

singular person

i ford inches of soul

to build (he)r lapidary

stone altar

offer hibiscus viscous blood honeycomb and hecatomb

to slake her dial murder to see if god is home place a collect call on my red telephone. i heard the angels snicker say god doesn’t answer devils worshipful you are of the angel sinner bloody hands never took a daughter in wedding they tell me hallowed things that could dissolve gold but i only want to know how to say i love you in hendecasyllabics 


and now:

everything you do is

an act of godhead

is liturgy-cum-legislation

has the impetus to

cle/slash/ave the in(visible)divisible

you can tear atoms


eaves of worlds,

severed so be it

so it is written so it is done

pharaoh et al amen

to Amun-Ra


irregularities of light


death a little


dying fool, the

half life

of a decision is

life changing


the full span of one–

world building


so imagine yourself

and the choice 


co-conspirators in            love

judicious as you live because

hereafter is not    conscripted

looking at       me       ready to

alter every                        thing


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.