I throw arms around myself. Wreath of me. So many wreaths are filled with prickle. Pine, holly, cone, rosemary, razorwire. In this way, a circle is protection.
A black hole is wreathed with barbed light.
I arm myself. Here is a gun, here a book of poems. Hate me–but I needle to find pattern, the stitch that attaches. I am different. I must guard myself against becoming same.
Outside this circle is the badness. Beyond whatever fence, salt, cage, or microcosmic inspiraling.
Who unforced to confronts the worst of themselves? Sometimes (hate me) I think it may in worldterms be better to sublimate shame into labor.
I don’t know this in every case, not for a certainty, but lots of people I know a little know a lot. Lots of people/hate me/know every last thing.
I would like to drink what they drink and also not drink at all.
There are many darknesses to be swallowed by, but lately the strangling lights hurt me more, even in the distance. The mobbing glow. The bettermass of angels teeming with right thought, right action, right silencing, right us-ness. The next galaxy over even as it dopplers grows closer.
Through new technologies of scrutiny we can find the hole in the heart of most things.
And we do, and we pronounce it from above like a boil of hawks (tho the universe has no direction other than out) and this heady, hungry rapture is why I
today choose to dance. Throw arms around myself, fast.