I thought life would end
in the carve of this lust,
this pleasure of comfort,
this blossom of consent—
in the stretch of anything
yearning to elongate,
any bursting, outstretching passion,
carving into the oak of…
curving the straight-lined into dance.
Zero finds its potential.
Tongue;
ropes tied to ambrosial fountains of taste,
pleasure and punishment on your palate;
stalactites and stalagmites
pulling to join,
to heal the fracture of distance.
Fingers reach out—reluctant,
for they have not yet heard
the tune of horror.
Every severed thing yearns to mend,
wounds bridging the tear,
the gash in space and time,
the wound of departure.
Turbulence throbs to heal,
storms ache to calm,
life searches for death—
yet in the ashes of death,
clings to survival.
Eternity is the search itself.
The dualism of arms,
hands reaching for union—
in crafts, in labor, in art.
Branches stretching skyward,
praying for light.
Trees strive within—
each branch an offering,
each root a plea
to heal the gash of separation
by extending it further,
to sew the tattered prime
of nonexistence—
"not to be."
To reach out,
expanding forever,
chasing what cannot be caught
yet is always there.
The never-ending betterment—
which, if stilled, like stagnant water,
turns stale.
To conquer the reverse zero of expansion,
to escape the zero of beginnings,
to run with all one's might
toward the zero of the end.
Like a seesaw of two equals,
waves, circumstantial patterns—
splitting the outer zero, the circle,
into waves, into infinite angles,
into the concrete world.
Turning dream into conquest,
malleable into concrete.
Two zeros, bridged by numbers,
discovering distance, discovering time,
by trying to erase them.
A letter eight—
the joint of two annihilations,
the throat of an hourglass,
the key to infinity.
Life denies something
by celebrating it.
The only thing that matters
is the step toward death.
A show is both distraction and hint.
Relativity is when zero is disturbed.
Definition is a whisper of not to be—
the zero before splitting into numbers.
The moment of joy—
sins luring us to believe
that this is real.
That you might die,
or lose your soul entirely
for a passion
worthy of its everlasting sorrow.
Where burning desire turns to etching,
and etching to festering wounds,
and joy to a sustaining stain—
on your teeth,
on the moths’ wings.
Worshipped by their wings,
by the color of their wings,
turning to the color of fire.
The flames purify through burning—
not to admire their splendor,
but to sacrifice them
for the idol of love.
