There, in the collapsing bones as they touch sheets
day on day, they are spent
Sun up, to down. at the mast of self
a dynamo churning to the ikigai
as I bifurcate yucca without being countered,
as I devastate and install landscapes in singular and innumerable passes,
There, in the endlessness of labor—
made sharp and crisp and... invisible.
How practiced the hand,
how exhaustive the experience
as the intersection of miraculous and breakthrough and... banality
come to fruition as if ripening fruit
remaining ambiguous as if assessing gender
proliferating as if spawning-life
and I am at its imperfect hand,
shaping futures, given the reality
as the practice of generating the future
is contingent on transcending the marring vulgarity of the past—
As if there is some great anvil to the formation of grace
forged; in fire and focus and... violence.
holding us from death and away from transcendence
in a duality that struggles to grasp a fifth dimension
there, in the bindweed gyred around chain-link
cleverly extracting them from the earth with a trained grip
when just out of reach,
the fence can stretch just enough to utterly cripple their year
as if seemingly concrete structures aren’t impermeable to my will—
some being beyond comprehension impartially debilitating the very nature of you
because the plant you’re maliciously touching has sex in a more pleasing way.
There, in the fragments of children’s bodies splattered against collapsed buildings
in the endless bluster of lies
genocide takes place in our kitchens—
as I wrestle with how their oppressors must see them
when humans are so dissimilar to plants, and bugs
How brutal this has all become, how powerless I feel for the realities of others
as if all I can do is draw their suffering into myself, weakly. pathetically weakly.
There, in the infinite singularity of our black mirrors
the demons of time amuse and destroy us—
In the way that age wears us down and hones our metal
but the ache of irresolution seems... eternal.
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