THINGS ONLY LIVE ON THE BASIS OF THEIR DISAPPEARANCE

welcome to the psychedelic wonderland
to the celebration of heathen holidays
in overzealous times
and the impermanence of living a clandestine poetry
as we circle around the fire
sending delayed feedback loops to the stars
alongside mermaids and werewolves
with whiskey-glazed lips and wild grins
stars and swords in snails are invoked
to aid in rituals of lo-fi black magic
for the bittersweet promise of a new year
filled with nights passing like dreams

ODE TO A SNAIL

subtle whispers of movement:
eyes atop their stalks
sway with the heavy breath
of exhaust
and moonlight

seductively spiraled and
striped with imprints
of earth
and sky
and the leaden burden
of self sufficient
survival

surreptitious surges
through filth and
up stairs
stretching
sallow skin
and the stain
of passage

the soft scent
of spring
signals
the end
of sleep

BAKHTIN TELLS THE HOUR OF THE STAR

For one has a right to shout, and if we detach ourselves
completely from this impulse all we have left
is the naked corpse of the word,
because what is fully mature is very close to rotting
and every word is directed towards an answer.
So I am shouting, for surely words are actions?
besides, I know about certain things simply by living:
all objects are from one side highlighted while
from the other side dimmed,
and their rhythm is frequently discordant.
This is opaque material and by its nature it is despised by everyone.
The word is born in dialogue as a living rejoinder within it,
exclusively in the present because forever and eternally
it is the day of today.