(poem [my first- forgive me if it’s terrible] published in the Journal of Interdimensional Poetry, a poetry journal affiliated with the ‘Psychedemia’ conference held at the University of Pennsylvania, September 2012.)




On the eighteenth day,

Of the eighteenth month,

On the banks of the river of accumulated knowledge,

Where lay scattered in scraps

The sharpened instruments of scholars, tried and tattered-

We reached you.

Amidst traces and remnants

Of living endeavors

Our mothers, and fathers,

And their mothers’ mothers

Had weathered-

We reached you.

We cast our bodies to the ground,

And battered our heads,

And standing, stood beside ourselves-

And wept.


What hides behind the eye, that gives it sight?

What nestles in the crevice of the ear, that we may hear?

What flickers before the thought,

What cradles the tongue to speak?

Oh gasp, that thickens in time-

How can our breath give thanks to the wind that quickens the breath?


On the eighteenth day,

Of the eighteenth month,

We arrived,

Hands heavy with seeking.

We placed our senses before you,

And you said-

Speak to me not of repetition,

But of that which has not begun.


Before the origin,

It eclipses, it remembers itself.

It trickles through our hands.

It spits out bones,

It carves wrinkles into trembling skin.

It sows us into speech, it points beyond; our tongues clatter.


On the eighteenth day, of the eighteenth month,

We reached you,

Hands heavy with seeking,

And you said-

Speak to me of the human being who shrivels in skin.

Sing me the creature, help me remember

The teeth of the lover whose shivering skin,

To forget itself,

Repeats itself.

Speak to me not of beyond,

But of the being

Who lives, and breathes,

And moves in time.

Sing the beginning which completes itself.

Take no offering,

Know no temple,

No place.

But time

Give me time to unwind the generations.

Time, in which, to speak,

I speak again.

Sing for me these knotted hands,

This gasp of flesh.

Speak to me of remembrance.



It occurred! There, in history!

We saw it with our own eyes!

Branch of no planting,

Work of no hands,

Spring from no source!

Where we write, it glows!

Where we speak, it sparks!

Oh gasp, that quickens in time-


On the eighteenth day,

Of the eighteenth month,

We left you,

And you said-

There is something that remains.



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