STAYFREE

Shroud of desire, pink baby, buried at sea-- buried by waves, saline, bromine, butoh ghost-- dime of the moon, swirling in chisels, course-grained faces of the water, faces of the nil child, disrobed and then macerated by eons' broad lace-- faces of the killed, of purple maple and yellow, faces of yarn, knit with guilt, faces of the dogs, throats whistling "Ona, Ona, Ona-ei!" My leaky chaplain, stutterer of months, bruised and bitten, limping and burdened by the broad book-- a dime and a dime fed into his slot-- he whirs mechanoid hymns, guzzles the agony unwrapping the drowned infant-- spreads his coat and lets the animals feed, lets his milk saturate the delta of the exit of thought-- whistles hollow life-- screeches hollow sendings, mapping back up the river of inflammation toward glaciers of numb dissociation-- his semen is sewing machine oil, squirted in the stack of a toy train. White smoke rings puff gently away, spelling Ona, Ona, Ona-ei.

Mystery child, mystery fetus, mystery abortion, mystery made amniocentesis by chugged word, by linking work with wish, clasping itself-- blue child now, blue swallowed by a snake-- pink and blue feeder mouse, down down and pooching out gravity's gullet, through phase space for peacocks, spelling the names of life in the broad book. Ona-ei, drowned child. Drowned, choked lust, want, drowned reaching, drowned song. The same way the store mouse fetches its food, Ona, fetching the bottom of the sea. Half-dime of moon, silly letters gummed black by intervening time, by weight, by pressure. Black, black are the worms of eidetic geometry as the infant skull caves in, fontanelle squirting like toothpaste, like sea cucumber, inky blank now in mock camouflage, rest, rest, examine your rest.

And this is the rest then, a dodge, a flipper, a duck, a wipeout. A blackout. A memory dodge, memory pills, a writing, scrawled by lasers-- the hologram haunts as sight pulls away, revealing the globe in its evil totality, in its twists, its anisotropy-- false specular heavens teeter through, the body chooses such angular aspects so as to comfort itself-- it finds all things to be true-- finds the guts pretzeled and wrung out over continents, boiled in salty seas, the neck cut open and roaring, gargling its own contents like a puppet volcano-- the stare of reality crazily insists it is really real, really simultaneous, really operationally overloaded, really recursive, enfolded by flags and shrouds and demon wings and crowned by an orbiting ring of human gore-- a baby in a gyre, equatorial and gross, a peppered eyeball retching tears, naked in the construct.

There will be no coming back.