Page 61 - Iterations:Other/Is

I light a lamp, not the lamp, but one near it, a red one near the center, seven were lit before. When there is no more clockmakers; time digested in belly, dull words hinged from cellophane, the meat counter full with (ies; for me the past is an ever-present sore, a book handwritten in lemon, signed in blood, a cube of ice set against the hairs standing from quadricep to blood pooling pinkie toe. We are occult chaff, she of Iron Wood, the religious sorts gathering in swarms with tracts and sheet cake which gathers mold, is scraped off, sold as concentration camp tokens; heavy handed and handed out none the less. Dark the tracks of it — light the absence of it; a weather from a well, a ghost taking privileges with functioning organs. The short uptake of sentience the lasting legacy of dust and reference numbers. The bi-valve #ltering shit for 300 years consumed without butter for sacrament and for not. More than a secret and less than a wet dream. Counting rings, cutting roses, wrapping babies breath into simultaneous (ashbacks with siblings or those who refuse to talk about how — I know little & remember less; once someone told me of Esau, a hairy ginger, of birthrights, of worthlessness, tied together, wrapped & sold on the same butcher’s paper.
through one void and into another