genesis
i write like gods ghost lines into my throat-- so i mouth them, molten, nearly mime. not a poem, a puppet-fugue-fray. i smear firelight, baptize sunrise in dew crime, sculpt myth from the marrow of my monday bones. they call it craft, sacred, bless its breath, 'most-holy. the blasphemy: i'm the stagehand-- splinter-nailed, suturing paper moons to blackout skies, siphoning stars from a split-open sternum as silence collects collateral, charges percentages i can't-- they clap. i curtsey. and conjure cosmos like the first breath did-- reluctant: rupturing, rushing, raging, ripping form from dust, only because the void refused to hold me. they don’t smell the smoke. this is that: a hushbomb, me playing god in papier-mâché bloom, ash on my tongue like a gospel i never believed.