All our revelations

are of those truths we tell ourselves in mudra repetition

wringing our hands

while other stories move our tongues

what poetry turns out our digestion

what song reveals our flaming dragon disease

breathing fire from colon to comma

destroying the towers 

my build of bricks

until I speak your truth

because it is no different

until I reach 

without permission

into your heart

blood salvation

each pursuit each obsession each turn of a page each new mouth

kisses and forgets

sucks itself

wishes for other words

the world we inhabit is so small

and the edges 

are poems

blake and beckett both found truth

in shit

the undigested flower 

is not worth praise

when I regret 

it is not missed action

but lost attention

that a particular shape of pouted lip 

or sigh 

was not forever watched

impossibly 

and regret of the impossible

is not regret at all

but resentment

what else is memory 

but returned mail

so the poems continue

with birds or windows, with the unnamed you, with the battlecry of longing, with lies on lies

I have no singularity

no window to a sole thing

no illusion

but desire

desire

a hungry ghost

a phantom pain

a scar fading

a falling drop of venom

my watchword is "no"

and love has come out of it

I am so sure death will not come for me

that I wait 

whole seconds 

to devour my love