Circulation

Closing in around the circulation of thought
seeing it snail-coil round the pole of emptiness, which,
blooms wide dilated sunshine from within;

burns up and out the venomous mixture of sunset-
rust as it cow-hides around the North star of
pretentious death, and its undying façade of Hollywood

body-parts and Hollywood kisses saran-wrapping
every breath, reinforcing packing materials with
Styrofoam cardboard dust; the moths in here are

shouting for their lives as the light from beneath surfaces
crack-wide, dawn, dawn cannot hide its face amongst a
million silent caesuras of genre-wine sipping catalogues, here

finally room is made, circulation unbought, circulation un-
taught today as any other is simply a moment in time
fingers tapping away at the keys in the mouth of a ram

skull, which, stares eyeless-wide at the sinking desert sun, crimson
blood of religion oozing over the sand, waves of blood covering the
fingers and skin, running over the airwaves in search of a container

a box, perhaps, one made of human skin and a shawl made
of the same, leathery material, all the memories of the undead, walking
through our bones, the forests of their days, the light which

touched through tree leaves, fingers gently caressing skin,
over the backs of canyons, the humps of camels, the meaningless
ripples of consumption, fairy-tales, superstition, circulation of

thought circulation taught, the drone of the west, in the drone
of the human-ticking-clock, car-battery, airplane jet engine,
fuel of relentless commercial, of unceasing talking neon

signs as they chatter and burry their un-made graves into the
ears of our human, human, of our human, human body
parts of parts and parts of parts, circulating

through the quagmire to talk, preach, reach-through and break
snap out of dragon-tooth-porcupine-claw, to whistle
out of tune only to be in real-tune, and listen to the fire

within rip, rip through; Pele and her wrath, the volcanic
electric air of inconceivable doom and the harshness of
ash as it rains down upon the soil, promising us, skin, a color,

a name, a wrapping over everything of what it is to be
naked, this grey terrain of soot and hell-fire, the
only real ground to which each moment stands on, with

legless lives and their breathless air and their eyeless sight
heaving and hauling memories of their cries through the thickness
of social-media and social-behavioral-programs and expectations of

conformity unconsciously suffocating the person dying within there,
circulation of murder in the corollary heart, in the unseen
canals and tunnels of neurology, twisting and winding its way

through a mediocre life with a mediocre house and all the things
keeping a paycheck and a roof over family’s head normal, safe and
country-nice for all who come and pray at the foot of ancestral

silence, their grief, the stones of walls of what isn’t on the tongue
where language below the surface has learned to harden, and
deny its passage of air-flow and turn away from sunlight, and the

burning sensation within the empty-column of air, of what it
is to be, as it is, a wild breeze through empty spider-silk
waves an ocean contains as it smashes the glass of a cupboard of

silence as ears are heard crying for their song, as a song
of triumph, a song of celebration, and paradox-cake is served,
we stand around, unacknowledged, sky-strong as expansive blue

and no one knows our name
and no one knows how to identify the alphabet

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