rage, rage against this body electric

… 

Aesthete, you; nepenthe, you; you gorgonize 

me. I sing you acosmism. I 

realize you as an amaranthine metanoia. 

I write to know your body 

as anoesis, give of my flesh—

to understand what intimate vulnerability signifies. 

I invoke my muse. Spend hours

chasing divine inspiration for the hope

that I can somehow grasp what 

it means to realize the sharing

of personhood, of limited immortality. I

think on you, ponder you as

a nimbus of Being. You evoke 

aura and adroitness like great women—

how mighty Tumanguya stares down my 

brilliant dreams—, imploring me to join 

you orphic and humid, while you 

tower taller still, filling my lungs 

with blight oxygen, raging against this 

body electric, glittering with lacy jags 

around your nude and mature form 

as instantiations of offering, instantiations of 

syzygy. I see you becoming as 

elusive prestidigitation, becoming as simulacrum. As 

aperture: learnèd. Thus, your questions are

widowed. Life loses its petty gods. 

And from across too few inches,

your gaze reminds me I chose

to witness this canon destruction yet 

maintain the audacity to be jealous

of solitaire’s inevitability: that all games 

are destined before they start. So 

we Become to know our wyrd 

coil and Greek fatalism. But to

know flesh like a crowned sparrow,

singing at skydown, I ask: Do

you judge what gab is sanctified, 

you, no thief of things unreconciled?

I say: Give of your flesh.

I too will be candid; I 

too will be not a bit 

complicated. Breathe the oxygen you steal 

from my lungs back into me. 

I won’t pay for an unfilled

grave while wishing my being discrete,

distant from things against walls and

separate from a confluence of denouements.

I say: Some philosopher said we 

come into being when observed. Well I 

am observed, but this is different. 

I am néanti and abschattungen; I 

am dédoublement; I am reflet and

réflexion: I am a sum, dared

into an intimate dialectic. A Being.