I want to tear a hole in the fabric of the air and drink galactic marrow,,
I want to stick a capri sun straw into the blazing heart of matter and drink the secret essence of every aching thing,,
I want to drink lightning from the storm,,
I want the existential essence of the downed birch tree to permeate my energy body,,
I want the beetles feeding on sap to yield the amrita of the underworld to me,,
I want to tap your heart like a maple tree and store the blue-gold energy syrup in mason jars,,
I want to crack open stones and slurp down time itself,,
But I am required to be human;; am I? Am I required to be human?
I’m an angel I’m a beast I’m a lichen I’m a breeze,
I’m someplace where the air is thicker I’m someplace where the grass grows quicker.
I was stung by a wasp and the world entered my body in a spike of pain and I chanted to the fire and drank moth blood from a basin.
I knew without a doubt what the world is, and petals as thick as the sky closed over me.
In redolent darkness, I digest ash.
It’s like reality is a sopping wet cloth, and everyone just walks around on it, but my job is to squeeze it and watch every shining droplet wring out.
Reality is soaked, somehow. The nectar is in everything. The blood of God flows through pine bark and subway stations. The wind is your own breath and your own breath is a coiled serpent flexing in your chest.
Evolution is the main character, traceless transformation is the only solid fact in the body of God. Evolution is a shapeshifter, taking every form at once and changing every form in tandem, with vicious play and all-pervading hungerlust.
It is teeth.
It is pressure.
It is the winter between stars.
Am I required to be human? I’m a flower and a microbe and seasonal fluctuations in the foliage.
I’m all three skies and seven suns.
I am soaked, somehow. Squeeze me and the nectar will wring out. Cut me open and the snake will slither away.
I am a redolent darkness. I am an angel in love with a beast, I am lichen in love with a breeze.
I haven’t written anything you’ll know what to do with. I have hopefully written something that makes this fact irrelevant.
I have hopefully written a fecund irrelevance. I have hopefully left nectar within some letters, or in the winter between stars.