Thursday, February 19, 2009



Waterclocking my way like a cloud

into a bigger sky

or trowelling away the stars

that cling to my bones

to get back to the unvarnished marrow

of my myriadic origins,

I realize I am as lost

as a rootless tree

or a voiceless echo

in a mausoleum of transformations

that didn’t wait for me to happen first.

So it’s anyone’s guess who I am now

and I’ve cleaned out all the oceans

of all possible life-forms

on the way to being me

to clarify the mirror

so I could see

but now, even the mirror

has run out of ontological notions.

But lately I’ve begun to suspect

that life isn’t motion or entropy,

neither still nor active,

not here now like me

nor coming to be,

not my next breath

nor a death that can’t be forsaken,

nor the space beyond these sexual opposites

engendered out of their own mutuality,

but the immensity of the godlessness that secures

my own unattainability,

and realizing the impossibility of being

I am no longer marginalized by existence.