consider reducing the journey at large— regarding each step and calling out the self
by R L powell
A)
If she writes—she thinks:
Budging the brain toward togetherness
will never commute its fearsome mind.
manage to another’s distant
brain-mater; ever fall, crown-
first, entire as spontaneous being
a shift and regard yourself as real
and be a second-self.
B)
If the brain can budge a pen
without an ounce of lead—the smallest
shave is made too sharpen its means
to jam the tip and birth a colander
as permeable as a caul of soul,
hung wet, with paper stars—
admit it—now’s the time
1. all this cosmos happens. Let it
stay—happened; regardless—
a spinning !dget making an eye
confess to the iota that doesn’t
genuine the past. Claim matter
spoons its bend to quanta—
feeling genuine like a chopra
of yoga—that cells might move
generous claims of cents—will agree
bodies are nothing but the money
or will—hates and screws deliverance
calls the new generous—for
for maing the trip—
C)
nothing commendable
has ever made it—
escaping out the news.
1.
▪ in the nerves—everything she called
important, reserved to clumps of dusk—
heaved circles from walls round
slums of stars—"ares of lovers
knuckling insights of their knees
to take from the beloveds’ back.
2. Try and upstart the universe. Some un-
beginning model was foolish enough
to go and contain what’s gone lost
willingly to call the being neutron
ultra-dark, that utters itself as “I”.
D)
She thinks it may be something neural,
There may be a node, that thinks of
where I’ve been uttered to leave
myself, a sanctuary of steps to wander
make my rusted strike a knocker
because “God—
I hope all of it isn’t matter.”
E)
Going on being makes hesitation
such a toil of bothering marks, to leave
and rolls the pause-sticking static
right back. Did I being in this body,
before stepping out the house? I should
set my sleep resolve to a time, have myself
never exist. I only relent equipped
in equal part to eclipse myself.
• There’s nothing else to exasperate desire.
• Every fraction will eventually oblige
• to this knoll and balance down—or is it
• a lawn or vantage leaves? Its subject
• known—because it doesn’t matter—
Precisely—I’m still here.
BIO: R L · powell [he :: they] is a queer, mad writer of poetry & prose—as well as the founding editor of APROSEXIA LIT. He's taught literature and critical theory to undergraduates for several years, and now they’re an MFA candidate at the Bennington Writing Seminars. He's got work in publications such as Haven Spec, the Eunoia Review, The Rumen, Impossible Archetype, with more forthcoming elsewhere—and is working on some sort of manuscript. They feel the world is short on opportunities to engage with the peculiar; invites you to visit aprosexia.org, anytime you'd like; and wants to remind you that you're doing a magnificent of job of being yourself.