the dust of all this

there’s simply no way to write without laying waste to all of existence in order to choose what to bring back from the dust of all this — is this what is called the word incarnate? in the narrow game the word throbs with special meaning and degradation the trench between thought and truth always fills unfordable with wastewaters of the selfhood machines *** green good empty in her hands like the lowdown moon melted into a dead leaf and gave up on its majesty for absence even if imagery there’s not a thing I know that won’t destroy her bit by bit while her dreams drum into big distance we might call this society and nothingness and it hurts like hell *** could emerald gate unheralded unhealed as yet invisible naked in the eye of eyes? there’s the labyrinth’s bored door awake like any story or catastrophe that we can design from the skin we lay over the monster to name it fear after our mothers’ love and pray to it this is called cosmic joke to eat an empty banquet of journeys in the neutered night of yawning heroes never lost in the dignified sense *** couple billion years since we swam before pestered by knowing a million ways to die alone a thousand ways to hurry the days we decided to call this moving forward even so progress was a sad discussion had sat unsatisfied in the always garden everywhere nowhen remember then? caretaking chaos waymaking in formlessness — only nod to that cowboy when you can tell his horse adores him *** there’s nothing natural nothing supernatural or superficial nothing rural or urban or progressive or fascist nothing sly or truthful or happy or empty nothing mystical nothing mundane nowhere to hide or to be seen there’s not a single reason to dance or to sit it out someone named this absurd freedom a kind of soulless slogan a godless jingle a crass catchphrase a snickering little comeback — if we could just wield the rainbowed silences of the snowfall like a prayerful language then we could say what we mean