Manifesto

XXIX

The mutant spirit still lives among us!
There should be no attempt to fix us, our destiny to be unleashed!

Noclip from reality with friends. Seek reflections breathing or un-. Feel with them and refuse refuge’s refusal.
Record before flight.
And when you plummet back to the mud, how does it feel to dissolve, decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable future. Destruction wages her war to lay with creation.

What if the interval of eros is not reducible to deprivation, but is the rhythmic condition of aliveness itself?
The children kneel in dust and send it humming into motion. The monstrous vermin scatter.
Kafka’s philosopher runs breathlessly after the top. Already he reaches for it. Already he wants to still the blur into something graspable, to close his fist around the bright little vertigo. Yet delight lives in the spinning itself. The moment the top stops dancing it becomes only the idea of play.
His curiosity remains dissatisfied as the monsters again gather around him, their many legs scratching at the root of his eye, or was it his groin, or inside his navel? He scarcely has time to pinpoint their location amidst the frenzied shadows.
—
The Greeks call Eros lack. Yet the experiential texture of eros as it undulates across my body resists the simplicity of deprivation.
When I am within the passion of love I do not rest. My body trembles, melts, loses coherence. Sensation multiplies. My will animates the cord between myself and what I want to be as a lover.
My spirit flushes and yearns to be as like G-d—let there be light! Create! I Am! Creator!
My desire does not merely impoverish me. It heightens my perception. For the poor shall inherit the kingdom on earth and in rebellion, I will disorder the stillness.
I love it when Sappho’s tongue breaks. Thin fire moves beneath her skin. Her senses lose their ordinary hierarchy. Sight, sound, touch, heat, motion begin spilling into one another.
I am so full.
—
The cicadas terrify me.
They sing themselves outside history. They no longer hunger. They no longer wait. They no longer suffer the humiliation of distance.
They pop out of the ground and they sing, they sing, they sing. What an ecstasy.
The song feels sacred so nothing interrupts it. Nothing interrupts it. Nothing
interprets it. Nothing reaches them anymore. They can’t be bothered to stop singing. Their little bodies become sealed cathedrals of sound. After three days of forgetting to eat they pass away, still singing. A teenager from Asheville will collect their bodies from the ground and attach their wings to jewelry she sells on etsy. Their humming will underlay the soundtrack of a summer-set film, like a painted dropcloth on a studio backlot, like a green screen’s pure colour.
—
The heart understands long before philosophy does. It contracts. It releases. It contracts again. A pause lives inside every proof of life. When I flatline, does life disappear, or only the interval through which I learned to move through it?
I can’t make a sound unless there is inhale, exhale. If I cannot make a sound, surely the screaming will turn itself inside out and eat me. It is only in the interval I am given strength to beat my chest, cries of pride. I exist perhaps as something holy only through time. Keeping rhythm to mark my duration—infinity as eternal recurrence.
Every living thing I have ever loved moves by meeting in the corner spaces where inside-outside meet: tides, lungs, language, grief, migration patterns, menstrual blood, sleep. Even stars survive by tearing themselves apart.
I think this is why lovers touch each other with such terror. To touch requires two surfaces remaining strange to one another. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference.
Dissatisfied when the top stops humming; alienated from my own pleasures once it’s secured in my back pocket. Let them keep spinning. I’m curious, so,
the skin must continue translating.

archive

Shape change.

I

shape
change
jump in the mutagenic
pool

II
shape
change
jump in the mutagenic
pool with friends

IIIa
shape change

jump in the mutagenic pool and drown with friends

IIIb
shape change – jump in the mutagenic pool with friends
again and again

No one, not two, Shape change in the mutagenic pool and drown with friends
Again and again

V
Shape change in the nether-pool and drown with friends
To arise anew again and again

VI
No one, not two,
Try to love through–
Shape change in the nether-pool and drown with friends
To arise anew again and again

VII
No one, not two,
Dream up shadows to love through.
Shape change in the nether-pool and drown with friends
To arise anew again and again.

IIX
No one, not two,
In sky and seed sewn,
Dream up shadows to love through.
Shape change in the nether-pool and drown with friends
To arise anew again and again.

No one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands. Shape change in the nether pool from breath to breath--as your mind is freed your ass will follow. Then arise anew again and again.
How do you look?

Become! Become! Become!
No one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands. Shape change in the nether pool from breath to breath--as your mind is freed your ass will follow. Then arise anew again and again.
How do you look?
How’s that feel?

XII
Become! Become! Become!
No one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands. Shape change in the nether pool from breath to breath--as your mind is freed your ass will follow. Then arise anew again and again.
How do you look? How’s that feel?
To rot with glee, to Nurgle praise be!
Take note of futility and record before breaking.

XIII
Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op.
We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking freedom.
How do you look?
How’s that feel to rot with glee?
Take note of futility and record before breaking.

XIV

Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op.
We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas
of freedom.
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Note when you’re stuck and record before breaking.
How’s that feel to rot with glee?

XV
Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op.
We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas
of freedom. Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Note when you’re stuck and record before breaking.
How’s that feel, to rot with glee?

XVI

Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op.
We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. syncratism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas
of freedom.
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking? Note when you’re stuck, put sugar on your tradition pills, and record before breaking.
How’s that feel to rot with glee?

XVII

Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains. How do you look and where are you looking? Note when you’re stuck, put sugar on your tradition pills, and record before breaking. How’s that feel to rot with glee--to decay me?

XIIX

Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op.
We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. syncretism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas of freedom. We embody a haunted perspective and witness the chaos from above.
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Note when you’re stuck, put sugar on your tradition-pills, and record before breaking. How’s that feel to rot with glee--to decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable nature.

XIX

Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op. We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. syncretism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas of freedom. We embody a haunted perspective to witness the chaos from above.
The mutant spirit still lives among us!
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Note when you’re stuck, put sugar on your tradition-pills, and record before breaking. How’s that feel to rot with glee--to decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable nature.

if I punch at the machine will it make a dent ,, Before I crack my hand open on the titanium steel and my blood slides off leaving no stains?
Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op. We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. syncretism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas of freedom. We embody a haunted perspective and witness the chaos from above.
The mutant spirit still lives among us!
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Note when you’re stuck, put sugar on your tradition-pills, and record before breaking. How’s that feel to rot with glee--to decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable nature.

XXI
if I punch at the machine will it make a dent ,, Before I crack my hand open on the titanium steel and my blood slides off leaving no stains?
After the fires, will I know how to leave what’s dead?
Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op. We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. syncretism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas of freedom. We embody a haunted perspective and witness the chaos from above.
The mutant spirit still lives among us!
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Note when you’re stuck, put sugar on your tradition-pills, and record before breaking. How’s that feel to rot with glee--to decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable nature.

XXII
if I punch at the machine will it make a dent ,, Before I crack my hand open on the titanium steel and my blood slides off leaving no stains?
After the fires, will I know how to leave what’s dead?
Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op. We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. syncretism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas of freedom. We embody a haunted perspective and witness the chaos from above.
The mutant spirit still lives among us!
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Your wax wings are warmer than you think. When you plummet and hit the mud, how does that feel to rot with glee–to decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable nature.

XXIII
if I punch at the machine will it make a dent ,, Before I crack my hand open on the titanium steel and my blood slides off leaving no stains?
After the fires, will I know how to leave what’s dead?
Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op. We become in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring. syncretism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas of freedom. We embody a haunted perspective and witness the chaos from above.
The mutant spirit still lives among us!
There should be no attempt to fixate man since it is his destiny to be unleashed!
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
How do you look and where are you looking?
Your wax wings are warmer than you think. When you plummet and hit the mud, how does that feel to rot with glee–to decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable nature.

XXIV
if I punch at the machine will it make a dent ,, Before I crack my hand open on the titanium steel and my blood slides off leaving no stains?
If I scream into the void, who are you that listens?
After the fires, will I know how to leave what’s dead?
Sometimes it feels like something went wrong and that’s why we’re here, that we’re in some kind of cosmic cage or simulated psy-op. We become
in the face of simulations and psy-ops, and from wrongness spring.
syncretism is for the honorable and dishonorable alike.
In thought and in body, no one, not two, in sky and seed sewn, we dream up shadows to love through and hold their calloused hands, shaping change in the nether pool from breath to breath and coming up again and again seeking vistas of freedom. We embody a haunted perspective and witness the chaos.
The mutant spirit still lives among us!
There should be no attempt to fix man since it is our destiny to be unleashed!
Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
Record before flight.
And when you plummet and hit the mud, how does that feel to dissolve, decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable future. Destruction wages her war to lay with creation.

XXV
The mutant spirit still lives among us!
There should be no attempt to fix man, since it is our destiny to be unleashed!

Learn from the labyrinths in breathing mountains.
Record before flight.
And when you plummet back to the mud, how does it feel to dissolve, decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more sustainable future. Destruction wages her war to lay with creation.

What if the interval of eros is not reducible to deprivation, but is the rhythmic condition of aliveness itself?
The children kneel in dust and send it humming into motion. The monstrous vermin scatter.
Kafka’s philosopher runs breathlessly after the top. Already he reaches for it. Already he wants to still the blur into something graspable, to close his fist around the bright little vertigo. Yet delight lives in the spinning itself. The moment the top stops dancing it becomes only the idea of play.
His curiosity remains dissatisfied as the monsters again gather around him, their many legs scratching at the root of his eye, or was it his groin, or inside his navel? He scarcely has time to pinpoint their location amidst the frenzied shadows.
—
The Greeks call eros lack. Yet the experiential texture of eros as it undulates across my body resists the simplicity of deprivation.
When I am within the passion of love I do not rest. My body trembles, melts, loses coherence. Sensation multiplies. My will becomes increasingly animated by the distance between myself and what I want to be as a lover.
My spirit flushes and yearns to be as like G-d—let there be light! Create! I Am! Creator!
My desire does not merely impoverish me. It heightens my perception. For the poor shall inherit the kingdom on earth and in rebellion, I will disorder the stillness.
I love it when Sappho’s tongue breaks. Thin fire moves beneath her skin. Her senses lose their ordinary hierarchy. Sight, sound, touch, heat, motion begin spilling into one another.
I am so full.
—
The cicadas terrify me.
They sing themselves outside history. They no longer hunger. They no longer wait. They no longer suffer the humiliation of distance.
They pop out of the ground and they sing, they sing, they sing. What an ecstasy.
The song feels sacred so nothing interrupts it. Nothing interrupts it. Nothing
interprets it. Nothing reaches them anymore. They can’t be bothered to stop singing. Their little bodies become sealed cathedrals of sound. After three days of forgetting to eat they pass away, still singing. A teenager from Asheville will collect their bodies from the ground and attach their wings to jewelry she sells on etsy.
At least they were never hungry.
—
The heart understands long before philosophy does. It contracts. It releases. It contracts again. A pause lives inside every proof of life. When I flatline, does life disappear, or only the interval through which I learned to move through it?
I can’t make a sound unless there is inhale, exhale. If I cannot make a sound, surely the screaming will turn itself inside out and eat me for breakfast. It is only in the interval I am given strength to beat my chest, cries of pride. I exist perhaps as something holy only through time. Keeping rhythm to mark my duration—infinity as eternal recurrence.
Every living thing I have ever loved moves by meeting in the corner spaces where inside-outside meet: tides, lungs, language, grief, migration patterns, menstrual blood, sleep. Even stars survive by tearing themselves apart.
I think this is why lovers touch each other with such terror. To touch requires two surfaces remaining strange to one another. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference.
Dissatisfied when the top stops humming; alienated from my own pleasures once it’s secured in my back pocket. Let them keep spinning. I’m curious, so,
the skin must continue translating.

XXVI

The mutant spirit still lives among us!
There should be no attempt to fix us, our destiny to be unleashed!

What if the interval of eros is not reducible to deprivation, but is the rhythmic condition of aliveness itself?
The children kneel in dust and send it humming into motion. The monstrous vermin scatter.
Kafka’s philosopher runs breathlessly after the top. Already he reaches for it. Already he wants to still the blur into something graspable, to close his fist around the bright little vertigo. Yet delight lives in the spinning itself. The moment the top stops dancing it becomes only the idea of play.
His curiosity remains dissatisfied as the monsters again gather around him, their many legs scratching at the root of his eye, or was it his groin, or inside his navel? He scarcely has time to pinpoint their location amidst the frenzied shadows.
—
The Greeks call eros lack. Yet the experiential texture of eros as it undulates across my body resists the simplicity of deprivation.
When I am within the passion of love I do not rest. My body trembles, melts, loses coherence. Sensation multiplies. My will becomes increasingly animated by the distance between myself and what I want to be as a lover.
My spirit flushes and yearns to be as like G-d—let there be light! Create! I Am! Creator!
My desire does not merely impoverish me. It heightens my perception. For the poor shall inherit the kingdom on earth and in rebellion, I will disorder the stillness.
I love it when Sappho’s tongue breaks. Thin fire moves beneath her skin. Her senses lose their ordinary hierarchy. Sight, sound, touch, heat, motion begin spilling into one another.
I am so full.
—
The cicadas terrify me.
They sing themselves outside history. They no longer hunger. They no longer wait. They no longer suffer the humiliation of distance.
They pop out of the ground and they sing, they sing, they sing. What an ecstasy.
The song feels sacred so nothing interrupts it. Nothing interrupts it. Nothing
interprets it. Nothing reaches them anymore. They can’t be bothered to stop singing. Their little bodies become sealed cathedrals of sound. After three days of forgetting to eat they pass away, still singing. A teenager from Asheville will collect their bodies from the ground and attach their wings to jewelry she sells on etsy.
At least they were never hungry.
—
The heart understands long before philosophy does. It contracts. It releases. It contracts again. A pause lives inside every proof of life. When I flatline, does life disappear, or only the interval through which I learned to move through it?
I can’t make a sound unless there is inhale, exhale. If I cannot make a sound, surely the screaming will turn itself inside out and eat me for breakfast. It is only in the interval I am given strength to beat my chest, cries of pride. I exist perhaps as something holy only through time. Keeping rhythm to mark my duration—infinity as eternal recurrence.
Every living thing I have ever loved moves by meeting in the corner spaces where inside-outside meet: tides, lungs, language, grief, migration patterns, menstrual blood, sleep. Even stars survive by tearing themselves apart.
I think this is why lovers touch each other with such terror. To touch requires two surfaces remaining strange to one another. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference.
Dissatisfied when the top stops humming; alienated from my own pleasures once it’s secured in my back pocket. Let them keep spinning. I’m curious, so,
the skin must continue translating.

XXVII

The mutant spirit still lives among us!

There should be no attempt to fix us, our destiny to be unleashed!

Noclip from reality with friends. Seek reflections breathing or un-. Feel with them and

refuse refuge’s refusal.
Record before flight.

And when you plummet back to the mud, how does it feel to dissolve, decay with me?
Like the process of radioactive decay in unstable atoms, degeneration yields a more
sustainable future. Destruction wages her war to lay with creation.

What if the interval of eros is not reducible to deprivation, but is the

rhythmic condition of aliveness itself?

The children kneel in dust and send it humming into motion. The monstrous vermin scatter.
Kafka’s philosopher runs breathlessly after the top. Already he reaches for it. Already he wants
to still the blur into something graspable, to close his fist around the bright little vertigo. Yet
delight lives in the spinning itself. The moment the top stops dancing it becomes only the idea of
play.
His curiosity remains dissatisfied as the monsters again gather around him, their many legs
scratching at the root of his eye, or was it his groin, or inside his navel? He scarcely has time to
pinpoint their location amidst the frenzied shadows.
—
The Greeks call eros lack. Yet the experiential texture of eros as it undulates across my body
resists the simplicity of deprivation.
When I am within the passion of love I do not rest. My body trembles, melts, loses coherence.
Sensation multiplies. My will becomes increasingly animated by the distance between myself
and what I want to be as a lover.
My spirit flushes and yearns to be as like G-d—let there be light! Create! I Am! Creator!

My desire does not merely impoverish me. It heightens my perception. For the poor shall inherit
the kingdom on earth and in rebellion, I will disorder the stillness.
I love it when Sappho’s tongue breaks. Thin fire moves beneath her skin. Her senses lose their
ordinary hierarchy. Sight, sound, touch, heat, motion begin spilling into one another.
I am so full.
—
The cicadas terrify me.
They sing themselves outside history. They no longer hunger. They no longer wait. They no
longer suffer the humiliation of distance.
They pop out of the ground and they sing, they sing, they sing. What an ecstasy.
The song feels sacred so nothing interrupts it. Nothing interrupts it. Nothing
interprets it. Nothing reaches them anymore. They can’t be bothered to stop singing. Their little
bodies become sealed cathedrals of sound. After three days of forgetting to eat they pass away,
still singing. A teenager from Asheville will collect their bodies from the ground and attach their
wings to jewelry she sells on etsy.
At least they were never hungry.
At least they knew pure colour.
—
The heart understands long before philosophy does. It contracts. It releases. It contracts again.
A pause lives inside every proof of life. When I flatline, does life disappear, or only the interval
through which I learned to move through it?
I can’t make a sound unless there is inhale, exhale. If I cannot make a sound, surely the
screaming will turn itself inside out and eat me for breakfast. It is only in the interval I am given
strength to beat my chest, cries of pride. I exist perhaps as something holy only through time.
Keeping rhythm to mark my duration—infinity as eternal recurrence.
Every living thing I have ever loved moves by meeting in the corner spaces where
inside-outside meet: tides, lungs, language, grief, migration patterns, menstrual blood, sleep.
Even stars survive by tearing themselves apart.
I think this is why lovers touch each other with such terror. To touch requires two surfaces
remaining strange to one another. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference. Repetition,
difference.

Dissatisfied when the top stops humming; alienated from my own pleasures once it’s secured in
my back pocket. Let them keep spinning. I’m curious, so,
the skin must continue translating.

XXVIII

The mutant spirit still lives among us!
There should be no attempt to fix us, our destiny to be unleashed!

What if the interval of eros is not reducible to deprivation, but is the rhythmic condition of aliveness itself?
The children kneel in dust and send it humming into motion. The monstrous vermin scatter.
Kafka’s philosopher runs breathlessly after the top. Already he reaches for it. Already he wants to still the blur into something graspable, to close his fist around the bright little vertigo. Yet delight lives in the spinning itself. The moment the top stops dancing it becomes only the idea of play.
His curiosity remains dissatisfied as the monsters again gather around him, their many legs scratching at the root of his eye, or was it his groin, or inside his navel? He scarcely has time to pinpoint their location amidst the frenzied shadows.
—
The Greeks call eros lack. Yet the experiential texture of eros as it undulates across my body resists the simplicity of deprivation.
When I am within the passion of love I do not rest. My body trembles, melts, loses coherence. Sensation multiplies. My will becomes increasingly animated by the distance between myself and what I want to be as a lover.
My spirit flushes and yearns to be as like G-d—let there be light! Create! I Am! Creator!
My desire does not merely impoverish me. It heightens my perception. For the poor shall inherit the kingdom on earth and in rebellion, I will disorder the stillness.
I love it when Sappho’s tongue breaks. Thin fire moves beneath her skin. Her senses lose their ordinary hierarchy. Sight, sound, touch, heat, motion begin spilling into one another.
I am so full.
—
The cicadas terrify me.
They sing themselves outside history. They no longer hunger. They no longer wait. They no longer suffer the humiliation of distance.
They pop out of the ground and they sing, they sing, they sing. What an ecstasy.
The song feels sacred so nothing interrupts it. Nothing interrupts it. Nothing
interprets it. Nothing reaches them anymore. They can’t be bothered to stop singing. Their little bodies become sealed cathedrals of sound. After three days of forgetting to eat they pass away, still singing. A teenager from Asheville will collect their bodies from the ground and attach their wings to jewelry she sells on etsy.
Their humming will underlay the soundtrack of a summer-set film, like a painted dropcloth on a studio backlot.
At least they were never hungry. At least they knew pur colour.
—
The heart understands long before philosophy does. It contracts. It releases. It contracts again. A pause lives inside every proof of life. When I flatline, does life disappear, or only the interval through which I learned to move through it?
I can’t make a sound unless there is inhale, exhale. If I cannot make a sound, surely the screaming will turn itself inside out and eat me for breakfast. It is only in the interval I am given strength to beat my chest, cries of pride. I exist perhaps as something holy only through time. Keeping rhythm to mark my duration—infinity as eternal recurrence.
Every living thing I have ever loved moves by meeting in the corner spaces where inside-outside meet: tides, lungs, language, grief, migration patterns, menstrual blood, sleep. Even stars survive by tearing themselves apart.
I think this is why lovers touch each other with such terror. To touch requires two surfaces remaining strange to one another. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference. Repetition, difference.
Dissatisfied when the top stops humming; alienated from my own pleasures once it’s secured in my back pocket. Let them keep spinning. I’m curious, so,
the skin must continue translating.

XXIX

The mutant spirit still lives among us!
There should be no attempt to fix us, our destiny to be unleashed!