i am weak like a grapevine, sinuous and
drunk, clutter of tungs. i ply ployed play. i walk on the dead and they talk
among themselves like cats. who knows the stretches of soul as it languishes in
slaughtered deserts? i’ve seen leaves rise like stars on the crucifixion of
time and not flinched. who has not shed some clothes for unremembered passages?
who has not said no to opening a door? i am strong like yone and shige. the
dead are not the unliving, nor are they the oncehavebeen. the dead are us,
traded around strange guberniyas. let us sing together our untranslatable
songs, on ashes of quashed fires, stories of silent joy
i walk a bridge from void to void, upon
arriving a voidoid i become, form of see, weird of know
and dialogue is not some exchange between two
or more parties seeking understanding, means, ends. dialogue is a rupture in
night’s impenetrability, blinding us to ourselves, convention knowledge virtue
effort … this wandering lacking destination or measure, words disturbed
muttering of wind
we have spoken you and i across the spaces.
we have placed ourselves like imaginary planks on death’s infinite bog and walked
across and our walking is our words
who said love is anything but these spaces,
this place and walking?
