The World To Come

Monastic blood-stream inswept through loose maws,
Meat of our lips lisping meekly.

Licking the stained wood for inspirado,
Black pills spilled, broken up, and dissolved in the milk
So that everyone’s will is eclipsed.

Still on planets near (and large) the hard charge narrows,
Barreling down rifled tunnels flush with tears.

This senselessness is medicine.

There will be no mention of density or deception,
This is how to be deceived by perception.

“Feel not beholden to my holding you,” she says,
Clouds of meaning like bumper cars at night are drifting.

To lift the correct finger momentously is art in rebellion.

To saw down the Capitol steps with a show of
Grown keratin is more than an experiment.

Take Care by the hair of her arms,
Stir the seas across seas as your own hurts are stirred.

Love Clear above all knowledge,
Love dove’s vacant wings overhanging incomplete structure.

Bones at the bottom leading to stones, sticks, and metal spines.

My love, hiding within or behind,
Opening or closing womblike, or heartlike,
Existing at certain points in the Day of God,
Shuttered into screened cages adding bits to the structure.

The world to come is not waiting for us,
Our movements place blocks of space or mass between here and there –
Kicking the ball while picking it up.

The Dog chases what the Snake catches.
We live in the abandoned scale,
Knowing tomorrow.

The Snake will return.