On Nothing In Particular
I don’t mean ‘not any thing,’
Or not ‘no thing,’
as in: that definition really
leaves nothing
to the imagination.
Not that.
And not ‘no part’ either.
Like something of no interest or value,
as in: those definitions mean nothing
to me.
I mean:
the something
that does not exist;
the absence of all
magnitude or quantity;
and that,
if we have a goose egg, tennis love,
and we also have anything else—
cricket ducks and an empty
cup—then we have been left
obviously
with two things.
I mean that zero is also
a number.
It counts for something.
+
This is not just the fabric
of the universe.
We're talking about the
formation of a discharge,
a pus of
something significant,
bubbling up
inside of space
and time.
I’m talking about
the way everything arrived
out of nowhere.
+
'Mother’—by which I mean
the process of giving
birth, the constitution
of a being;
A coming forth
is what I mean;
The way you were
nobody
nowhere once
and then poof
you became
whoever
you
call
me
+
And so, together:
I mean everything
came from the same place—
the same place it's all going back to, too—
nothing.
And so, I also mean
that this phrase does not mean:
there is not a thing of import in all this
nothing.
I don’t mean perfect relativity
or that all our lives are
nothing.
I mean everything came from the same place and that is not
nothing.
I guess I mean:
Nothing matters—
or what is not
has been on its way
to becoming something
again.
In fact, it’s here already,
but not quite
yet.
ritual bath
this font is some gothic attempt at god-science,
some crude light-gathering device
turned empty cauldron of pluming mysteries
that will be drained
finger by finger
one cross at a time
+
even the bats swoop
down from the rafters
groaning with age
to bathe in
this bowl
primping bodies they hope&pray
transform into doves—
fly away
+
for children
it’s just a quick dip
in the god’s ancient stew:
-one can cream of concupiscence
-one generous scoop preserves sealed in light
& breath
—anything else you’ve cupboard-ed
dropped in like
an immersion blender
plunge
sink
lift
drip
+
the price of admission
and adoption
has not changed for centuries
fucking
accept it
+
if they tell you you are not tall
enough yet
if they won’t even sprinkle you
with it
nicely pray for the god to damn them until
they get it
and while you’re at it
climb their
font’s marble lips
& shatter the glass surface with a fist
& when they require an answer for it
say
children of the god
were not created to be
left without this rite
+
talk about what we mean
when we say we are saved
after getting wet
because,
last I checked
the devil
no longer exists
Little Hands
I see children walking in smoke.
dust-thawed before the god’s horns are blown.
Their small-faced glances of death
worn in the dry mist of this eternity.
Inside each chest lays stones—
gray, heavy, grating—bone over bone.
Empty rib cages rattle.
I hear whispers of parched lips.
Ash falls, blankets this sulfur-fire deep.
Dusk glimmers where I stand
among fiery flakes pinched tight for safekeeping.
Then my bones enflesh, become little hands.
for Connie
