buttons

Do you suffer from an excess of consciousness?

Why no,

I celebrate its vibrations,

its folds,

its refusal to dwell

in your monochromatic dogma

of   white   on   white   and   black   on   black.

I can almost hear my cacophony of color

echo with vivacity upon your sight.

This collage,

this me,

this being of beings,

all and one,

universal and solitary.

A rose is

a rose is

a rose,

even beholden by Napoleon

or Picasso,

though one might imagine it different,

imagine the telling of another soul

having breathed with ever-gouged eyes

how to draw their own likeness.

Would you like it if I told him

where the hand goes,

how the tongue clicks,

what the ear hears;

if I told him, would you like it?

Now?

Not Now?

Now?

Pull curtains closed, shut shutters, and   f e e l .

There.

There.

There.

and There.

Like so.

and so.

and so.

Reach through the pitch,

mold the air into everywhere.

and everything.

and nothing.

Not a thing

comes forward,

or backward,

or sideways,

just a way of                              looking,

thinking,

standing still,

still standing,

moving with movement,

wavering on wave after wave of light

devoured slowly,

   slower,

   slowest

as it sinks

into the dank dark dirty nether.