the oranians have hacked in she says

the oranians have hacked in she says they find a loophole in a word and thats it  the datas gone like bees and ı gaze at the erasure as if its some omen from a republic of hunger   ı know theyre coming for me  theyll break the encryption as if its celery and read my weakness openly and send their cars through a windless night  ı await them now in the inculpating hours  they know the passwords and all thats lefts to die

to be seen by trees  to be spoken of them like thick honey  to sit on the throne of their roots and listen to lost mentorings  loopholes and bees  to spread the world on ones toast as if it were a rupturing unfolding

texts devastating  weve killed the word from fear of its hallucinogenic powers  its ability to reaniminate in even the seemingly most lifeless things  its this wizardry we lack we wish to exile to the poisoned lands weve created in its honour   avoid the path of book  there is no guidance for it anymore and the maps are lost

maps? she says the maps are never lost  maps are just another name for love and so you question loves tenacity in your rhetorical forays of honey and genocide

you misunderstand me  the sun ive alluded to  the entire family in fact  of celestial disasters  prevents us from entering the spaces that are the substance of the dream of some becoming   so your awaiting  rather than being obliteration or any closure  might rather be a dark passport to the very realms that in the fullness of your anxiety youre seeking

its the modals that disturb me though ı accept them with an uncertainty ı pray might rival theirs   ı prefer the perfect tense  ı appreciate its pretensions which remind me of the ferocious audacities of friendship   its true  ı dont wait anymore with the kind of impatience ascribed in rations to the insignificant who receive it routinely with a care correlative with those states of consciousness we might associate when affected by the right mix of apparent transgressive conceptualizations with its imagined opposite

you havent seen the forests look at you with eyes of doubt and walk among them as if you were a novice of their slow enclosures   your oranians are nothing but a manifest of this lack and a hairline crack in the ceramic art of night  your erasures

wait   your statements lack precisely the ambivalence your heavy signs purport to signal   if ı speak in the immanence of replete sensation might it be less because of any circumscription rather nuzzling into a loss thats more necessary than articulatable and if the contours of our speaking have anything to do with understanding could it have more to do with the incomprehension we claim so incessantly to withstand?

we could say    we could say a ghost or god or gods or ghosts seep or sleeps or seeps in or from a or the imago or machine   we could say    we could say  no    we could say who  we could say 

but ı know theyre coming   ıve seen them in times flushed toilets  theyre here and there and in  it doesnt matter how much protection  ıve seen them behind the peanut butter and the blink of sunsets releases them across the polluted surf of dreams  our talking all supports darks invadings  talk of light and loops and lines whatever else  there is no language  the breach somehow is welcome  a new nightmare to distract us from the old ones  only forests where the data was and mutterings of broken ancient glyphs

its not true  hope and the hope of hope and the hope of hope of hope  these are matter as material as corporeality  i see growth and life as firmly as i do potatoes  i hear joy as solidly as snores  i feel 

none of this is real you talk as if youre insane your words fall into the abyss as