Everything Enters The Bloodstream

Everything enters the bloodstream, so if you say I love you, 
    I can bleed it out. I can bleed it out. 
            So, too, I can preen myself 
        like a pelt with a svelte tongue 
                that comes directly from your 

mouth. From your mouth, without a lid, I can fetch a susurrus 
    like circling the maypole in a sweltering 
            bloodletting self-erasure: my 
        ribbon’s residue eddies into me, 
                becomes me, a mutual seizing: I leave 

on it a sweat-stained paw print as I pant the parade around, pant 
    the fray around. Excelsior as sonic prayer, 
            I can detect the resonator through 
        my over-heated husk and it feels 
                serrated like a dry suckle, a dry spell, 

a dry dizzying bell. But such is deliverance. I’m a duet with the 
    epidemic songanddance, its endemic 
            trance, mnemonic seesaw teetering into 
        intense trespass, this then that, the lightning 
                crash of our highest tessitura, ever-

forward, not back. Wilting, ultimately ululant when winced by 
    the voltage of severance, mind from 
            body, mind from body, pinched by 
        a delirium, embodied and disgorged, hollow-
                boned and heavy, the delirium repeats 

its dire dictation as a bursting heat in the pit of the windpipe, 
    a sore soaring in the cords, the rhythm 
            broken, replaced with a heavy-handed 
        thirst, a parchment, a terse displacement 
                of tongue. Upon stopping, we go slick 

into the sickness of stillness. It doesn’t stop moving. Its nerves 
    tingle like tethered stars caught in our 
            head-jars and jilted, jangled, or like we’re 
        full body soap-stung, bee-stung, or hack-
                strung by our own lack of breath. Vertigo 

goggles us. Letting go of the ribbon, letting go of the rhythm 
    is like a limb gone missing: the hand sings, 
            the hand sings, the hand sings for its 
        other. A contagion, this blazon ring. 
                As such, cessation should be a blessing, 

but after such brazen joy, our vital signs re-reify—we’re not 
    gods—our former reign over ecstasy is 
            revoked with a spittle-blond substance 
        starching our throats, an operatic fever 
                and inoperative shit-for-brains; we 

become vessels for incurable half-goat, float-inducing dream-
    states, self-racing the irrational. In one 
            such hallucination, a small rabid 
        animal—bulbous anonymous mammal, 
                reduced to indistinguishable silhouette—

meets its death in the profanely shaped half-cruciform crawl-
    space of a Victorian porch to the sound 
            of continuous steps, caught foam-
        mouthed and unfurling in the cross 
                arch, puzzled-frantic by the light through 

the latticework rather than the crisscrossed dark. Yes, it’s all 
    dreck under the deck. No, you can’t 
            play there. Mother to child. But the child 
        is drawn to dark. You are drawn to 
                the dark. Note to self: Nevermind. 

Currently, amidst the unevenness, there is no access to the self, 
    it’s rerouted to a lark song sung by a vole 
            or a hole in the heart in the head. 
        Mad songs are all that make sense in 
                malady, immured to the vacuum birth 

of nonsense, a nuanced nothingness measured, unmeasured, 
    applauding its ever-apparent peals, and 
            when the lure of intolerable melodies starts 
        to heal in the blue of a blue hour, blue 
                replaces black and you start to come back. 

        *   *   *   *   *

After mid-summer, I spend a week in bed. When I can get out 
    of bed, I get out of bed. The world went 
            further into summer while I slept, more 
        terminal, tiring slightly of its more frilly pinks, 
                yellows, greens and reds. In the open air, 

I stand a figurine for the wind to curate my skin, to be curried 
    and weaned by the living beings it carries 
            and excretes: its transmissions, spills, 
        unspoolings: its miscellaneous missiles.  
                The vista oozes sunbeams or a bloodbath, 

same thing in the crux of a thickspun heat spell, vision 
    scalded by a boozy overlay of razzle 
            dazzle, translucent sanguine and rose. 
        In such a squint, it starts to feel like I can 
                love again, erect a bouquet (the buzz-kill 

of buds), slap the bugs sucking the blood beneath my skin. 
    I’m the gnat’s epicarp and consequent 
            peach. All has gone-to-seed in me. 
        My body starts to crave a counterpart, 
                a link as arms-length as a maypole ribbon, 

a dart-point that draws you to the center of something 
    moving—and you are moving with it, 
            subservient, knave-diligent but 
        necessary, a dressing of unclear 
                wounds (which may or may not be yours), 

an addressing of the wound’s source (which may or may 
    not be your specific body)—and round 
            and round you go always risking  
        the sentiment of insistence again 
                and again and again, somewhere the circle 

begins and ends but to keep going is to extend the turning’s 
    fixed point—it isn’t physics nor physiognomy—
            but the fear of flesh as polestar, end-all, 
        appellation. I resist the roundness 
                of my body’s landscape, like a lost package, 

a plump and placid stump, something too obvious to be proof. 
    The escape is unopened. Blunt, it is always there. 
            (Blunder: It is always where.) I am always here, 
        but I don’t care: the stakes are higher 
                than the formalities of a here. It’s always 

an elsewhere I’m aiming for, an egress quite alien in 
    its element (non-periodic) wherein 
            the stirring’s inferred, internal, turning 
        outward. The premises are imprecise, 
                likened liminal with ludicrous twirl. 

The intended flight is not an exodus terminal as taxidermy; 
    but altogether, still it severs. The body 
            doesn’t settle. Infectious urges make me 
        plummet to the plight of a parasite that enters 
                the bloodstream through a murky stream 

and untames, unleashes its bloom, squirms up to intoxicate 
    the brain. Everything seen enters the blood-
            stream. Everything unseen enters the blood
        stream. Everything enters seemingly without 
                shame. If I’m muddied, I’m muddied, my feet 

aren’t fully mine. It’s like putting a syringe of sugar water 
    into me—there’s something of bitter
            sweetness to be gleaned in the prick,  its purge 
        and push-forth. The blood has no oath. 
                The wet plume of vein accepts its slurry, its 

new birth. It has all the artifice of a simple recipe. But I’m 
    changed. I’m not the same. I’m vagrant as a 
            wound. What enters me makes me its surrogate 
        meat. I’m buttoned by it. It embellishes me. I bleed 
                because I bleed. I boast blood, keep going.  

All is nacreous-stricken on a nature walk when clouds 
    and sun compete. It’s the only explanation 
            I need. In the open slate, the clouds reincarnate 
        continuously, cleanse their bodies of their 
                bodies.  I’m part of the implied feast, seen through 

heat sensors. In the new stupor, you acquiesce with your 
    blessings, your bent alchemy, the lessening 
            of daylight. In the open field, the promise of 
        petrichor, a precipice. You can feel everything. 
                In bold light, the freak air completes itself, 

becomes a kind of sub-light made visible with various tiers 
    of dander and dust, specks of floss and fluff. 
            Until chance-planted, they are ancillaries to 
        nothing. They turn the breeze into their back-
                ground, their instrument of free-for-all and flight.  

The pollen gets stranded in the sealant of me; I’m its 
    stranglehold. A beholden grave when 
            inlaid, I’m not the yoke it needs. All it can bloom 
        in me, if you please, is a cough, a sneeze, 
                a stroke of bad undertuck in the nostrils. 

Lostwards, not lost. I walk and toss my touch on glossy 
    objects. My fingertips are the stuff 
            of poison when poised on the butterfly’s wings, 
        the caterpillar’s till-like crochets, the petal’s 
                half-bell. I sense a violation in their foreign breaths—

or a browning—as if I emboss them with a chill, a tremble, 
    an erupted must. What passes is tantamount 
            to a breach of trust in the guise of a gust 
         of blustery air.  A resistance wordless, but 
                inferred. When I pick up the feather, I do not detect 

the threat of an avian influenza. Nothing burrows in the fur 
    of its flute. But I’m its fluke. Through touch, 
            I become germ-absurd. Something transfers, 
        something blurs. I pick up a feather 
                    and become something of the bird.

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