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Sidereal Blue

Stars
are a dead language

in the fake early morning
of a city block

pulling on a thread
of sparks

brother god
I am convinced

we are not all
drenched in white light.

/

Waking toward
the same new world

bombed out
dazzled into obscurity

under retail slabs
our profuse anxieties

dressed up in light
slough off that world

breaking lockstep
to shuck the cerements

Stars!
a thread of sparks!

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Sisyphus At The Gym

If I feel the universe is rolling up inside me it’s because
it is; it has nowhere else to go.

And so, I sit still and listen
to my choice of illusions, the well-fed
desiccated death’s-head, squatter célèbre
of the psychic tenement, squawking the con
man’s overtures of lovelessness.

Sisyphus, the faith healer, drinks 10 kombuchas as a cancer cure.

Sisyphus! At the gym, working lats and traps,
but there’s noise on the channel —
packet loss in the stream of infinite ones,
I found nothing but a gaunt Clark Kent
with his finger down his throat
and Sisyphus at the gym
working traps and lats, saying
that wasn’t me and this isn’t that —

I got the message; it’s scrambled and I can’t tell
which grimace on the Wong-Baker pain scale is me
and I need to know: what’s heavier than eternal
return and could I lift it — up ladders,
through trap doors, either either or
or and what’s the constant choosing ever for?

Sisyphus hits the gravity bong and turns the dharma wheel uphill.

Breathe in, shapeshifter,
make your illusion of choice
between negative pressure and potential
space. The breath breathes itself
and light, the only sacrament, falls in
to itch that skeletal geometry
beneath bones, the network of all ones,
light that can’t be seen.

The gates are open,
      Polyphemus of Tarsus —
No one
is blinding you!

Sisyphus refreshes his email inbox as he is damned to do
until something breaks or breaks through.

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