God said let there be corn and I died a nasty light infection.
I wouldn’t attempt an exchange if I didn’t believe in the work
of negation. I have said No is a political nod and I have said
Yes is part of the work of omission. I have spilled matter before
and I will again in order for my ruin to gain traction. My mouth
is sore since it gawked out redness, I learn to lick to find surfaces,
the salty gesture I pin my tongue against time to taste. I open
my monster to admit the public into my sore museums, I run
my finger over my carriage to test for dust. There is something
effortless about war paint that infuriates me, how the men stand
at the tailgate bursting open their sores, that there is a terrible
nakedness inside their pants and I want to snort them all into my
sinuses. I have not told you why for years I placed a stone over
my throat but when I said yes, it was to obliterate certainty and when
I said no, it was to obliterate certainty. Years ago my thighs opened
and the stone trickled out. I made a cake for the annihilation
twained in sour gams. What I loved about autobiography was how
it didn’t spill over, not really—rather the inculcation of passing through
formed a weapon against the conceit of weapons. I read your memoir
until I had your life by the balls, the moony tang of confessional.
I trolled the banks until a single hair could be pulled from my cunt
and I bent far enough over to show off my afterlife, to give the people
what they begged for. This is my god damn landscape, I wrote about
my passage into envy on onionskins and I boasted its nature into
a rust puddle I supped to bloat into oblivion. If I am arcane it is so
you believe me this time, so my body can finally form into its fable:
meat fills the edges of narrative and you can leer at my edges. It’s
what I’ve always wanted. The spit and the lunch and the glitch of your gaze.
Consent is a hole I’ve dropped all the silverware through. I eat with arms
tied. I began this by pronouncing god into the silk of a wound and I began
when I fondled commandment into an act of mercy. It was no big deal
it was already there. I simply found a messiah and I polluted the air
with my kind. I gave you a thimble with my nails inside it and I told you
shake the contents. That desiccated mouth is mine, it says yes it says no
it drips a sore into your palm and another. Close your hand around it.
You’ll find me at the party cock out. I’m writing a novel about paradise.