A lost gram of ink touches color touches silk as it is learns to want - asks the silkworm: where to find the warmth of your longing that begets the eking of song? - asks the parchment: which word sat heavy and which light and how to tell them apart if the two insist on being same? will their difference subsist if I ink them together as one?
as I hold the sun in my eyes, three wishes pretend to sight i- the largeness of heaven's folly ii- the slow tremble of hunger's feet, and iii- my eyes again, knowing the the limits of knowing, the fragility of trees & the hidden guile of songs that pretend to know by nighttime what transpired between this stillness and that, unmasked -
grief is no stranger to story its hooves are tried & tread on the grip of honest blood remembered so of- ten it forgets to dry -
you cannot send a promise from the top of a mountain stream to its furthest point downstream where it meets the rascalled dream punctured by pin- holes of lacerated poems read those and surely the tread of your wizardry will woe down with the sewers of hazard turn now & stop it's time to rein in mountainspeak - once trust wavers, the hold of mountains is water touch the droplets and memory will hold no torch for you to laugh your poems away to torch those words, you need the hunger of ancients and the foul breath that lingers as sainthood comes crushing down these poems are not to be trusted, mountainspeak be damned -
still water rinses an ocean I can hear the rush often, the din of the whistle often as it stills itself in the rinse, in the rush - I lose my sense of water when the wall of hollow trembles I can hear the tremble silence itself & the hollow rush often -
petaled river, where are the rooms for you to breathe? sheathed in words ardored with swell of sword, step into the horror of now, where dream is companion no more, wed as it is to rule & measure - petaled river, with song as blood, swell of root & hum of bond, we are one - the clay of belonging is born to the sun of now, where dream is wed to flow of new, to the round of moon, its ooze & leisure -
Can you transcribe a cruel word enough times such that in the limit it belongs? could You rope in a cry with limbs dexterous enough to think it a laugh? when do the limits Cross, foretelling beginnings of duality? how can you persist in ones and zeroes forever?
I met Revolution again the other day recalling how a younger me was smitten by her fire & song so now are you the peacock or the Mountain? neither, she said, I am the dust that settled on the monkey's breath after your wars will you then sear through our dreams as Violet-green clouds of remembrance? only the monkey's breath knows when your blanched sword melds with the colors of a million ants -
sun draws not a single breach of song carries over lucid breath of trunk & color inches forth the grip of vapor, move of word, strum of earth - sun forgets what it shone over carrier of branch & home, humor & moan inching away from caliper & scale, it remembers mostly mirth -
It's a counting problem - ones turning into other ones, the count depending not on the leopard's spots but how they roll off her back teaching clouds how to fold song into rain
The transformation of a dual world into a binary world is the transformation of the world of two and of many inequalities but complete into a world of one and deficiency. If duality is one of the variants of the multiple, binarism is the world of the one, of the grid and universal referent.– Rita Laura Segato