Memory of the Body (III)

The Micro-Pointillist, Devolved

What was I eating the first time I heard color and fire

were not tangibles but events?

what was I wearing?

hopefully something blistering and vivid

so that I dotted these events about my canvas tight as riches

and thrust my fine hands through eternal.

A detonation of denotation. The final CLAP! Hush now icicle. Hush now empty frame.

There in the stone garden the last stone passenger pigeon

a form crazed in two from weather pressure

wet from the first spring rain, the memory of its first body (the stoney hilltop)

extinguished among household plants.

My kinsman—all small things grown large return to their reduced forms.

On the patio I sit and drink piña coladas and shots of liquid cocaine with a bowl

of raspberries, slightly chilled. The cataclysm of the known world erupting

over itself reversed, re-engineered laying tracks for new hegemony— this can happen

anywhere, in a backyard such as this, looking out at children on swings, chained

to some euphoric energy.

Hush now.

The mind crazed with event. The self as color and fire.

The detonation brought on by the new dismantling the new dismantling.

New thought new world. We all work like this.

Changing your mind means adjustment in consciousness.

That’s why I used to love tending garden. Each new color was a tune-up.

But learning requires an undoing of something else. ‘ Yes, and now I know better.’

If one believes in betterment. And is not the end of something

the beginning of something else’s end and their collision in time the event of being?

and that moment simply

a replacement part from the world’s endless storage facility?

larger than the ash&rubbished

(and newly refurbished)

Library of Alexandria.

(& newly ashed).

How each moment I

detonate suicidally

with recreation—