cellosong: (sigh)
Secretly, I am one hundred razor shards waiting
to fly violently away from the pure, harsh tone
that is the center of my soul. I am one hundred
silent fingers scrabbling at stones, panting
scratch-grooves to tell the airless story they are
living, each afraid of the dark, afraid of the
space, afraid that they will be the last
marker, that turning to their ninety-nine brothers
will yield nothing but the relentless pure tone
and the shattering of glass.


I feel like I'm in a place where I have nothing to contribute but vitriol. Biting, nasty, cruel, sarcastic; any moment equidistant from flying into a rage, a panic, a crushing and angry destructive mess. Its fingers are in my shoulders in every muscle, my head is spinning with it--I feel out of control.

Time for a bath in the dark, I think.
cellosong: (Default)
today I am expelling protons
not just expelling, but
spitting protons
I'm shooting them off my carboxyl groups--no--
I'm shooting them off of my oxygens
I ionize into the air.
fading--I'm no longer there.
But all of my virulent exhalations
the hydrogens, pairless, that dart in my wake--
an acid, an acid
today I'm an acid
perchloric and angry
a sour tart tang
a taste in the air
dissociates quickly
and burns up the sidewalk with protons
I'm spitting protons
I'm shooting them off of my oxygens
Bronsted and Lowry say I am an acid
in the wake of the protons
electrons suck in
and I have been negative all since the morning
but I am not bitter--
I'm not a base,
I'm an acid
a perchloric acid
to fizzle out slowly and hang in the air
and only the hydrogen says I was there.
cellosong: (Default)
There is such a surfeit of meaning in the world today
that I hardly have fingers enough to put to the keyboard
to keep up with the intimate whispers of God
as suddenly losing a pen in my pocket
is filled with significance;
to compensate for this spent time, to dress
I throw only a sweatshirt over my pyjamas
and I have stopped wearing socks.

You say, because I live in labs
That I am not hungry for English,
But I am so hungry for English
that each word rolling off my tongue
tastes like manna from heaven
thin flakes of intimation
melting in my mouth, before even said.
But no, I live in labs because I hunger for creation
and I have created, and I have seen it done
that imagination is not the domain of writers
they create from themselves,
but do you see this ball?
I have made it from nothing.
I have held in my hands a ball that I made
and known the power of structural formation
that transcends--yes transcends
I could speak no word for the rest of my life
and yet still bring forth into this world
the fruits my mind must offer
through not my mouth but my hands--
my thing to point to;
I have made this.
Yet, I am hungry for English,
I glut myself on creation
I bring whatever I contain
and force it out into the world--
I turn myself inside out
and shake out the pieces
the pocket lint
the change,
the pen:
whatever I have lost in this world
I will find it.


Chem test!


cellosong: (Default)

January 2011

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