i like to break my own rules,
probably cuz rules
are theoretical in nature:
a fortress of sticks n’ stones
—suggestions—
bequeathed to language,
fucked up sounds and visions
in some far away cloud;
rain that never disappears.
i decided some time ago
to throw away convention
and yesterday,
to dismantle what i
could no longer bear:
the great gurgling wall of silence
potent as the music box
that is my greatest work yet—
now gone,
into the ether.
i decided to open my tiny MOUTH;
to uncloak my shadow from the fortress
of doubt;
haunting elegies—suddenly gone,
into the ether.
[sigh]
i like to write in all lowercase,
sometimes, in all CAPS
(small caps, preferably);
normative behavior in the eyes of
a child.
the inanity of a child
is precious, contentious,
and we ought to preserve this
thing called naiveté,
what later becomes the spouse
of chagrin:
negligence.
what if life is one great aurora morialis?
[pause]
aesthetics aside,
modern semantics and grammar are
mere instructions to the
squares too tight to know
how to bend
what was never straight.
(how bent are you?)
rules are abstruse and amorphous,
genderless dragonflies etched into clay,
unapologetically rigid—particles,
glued together until
they’re not.
a rule is a ruse,
like speed limits and speedometers
begging to be
exceeded,
heeded, or possibly
ignored.
the incunabula of rule-making
was the progeny of my own undoing;
and thus came gnoses:
a child in the shape of
a storm,
a heathen;
a liminal vessel of surreal proportions;
timeless, untethered,
hypgnostic;
the beginning
or the continuation…