Let’s pick our space and run with it,
For time sits ripe today-
In extension we’ll find abstracted chances;
Dreams gone putrid, rotting under the weight
Of accumulated waste, flung atop as atopic, furtive glances
At our own morbidity; bore out of fear for killing the modality by which
We are delivered our nutrition,
Under the guise of becoming morally-enriched nitrates for the soil.
Why go on starving for the sake of peace-less in-expression?
May not a balance be found through bodily inclusion,
If by means of purification we ritualize digestion?
Independently forsaking the visceral storms of possibility
Grounding the current which bounds our affairs,
We choose as mundane superstition our highest acts
And rip apart thin air so that bedevilled
Delusions in place of the time-being may remain entertained,
Whilst our hearts grow deranged for want of direction.
Death and Care can relate to the Other differently,
And I, relatedly, am ready to allow fulfillment to unfold.
What else belongs alongside me?
With what heat must I brave the cold?
Let index scream out in warm harmonies,
If humanity ever finds the courage to transform its breath…
Copyright Keli Birchfield 2012