6.23.08

Today, I sang myself, not into now

but out, with silence of the everyday. 

Today, I stopped being real. Right now. 

I will rewrite every kingdom's pathways,

and when the roulette wheel has chosen fate, 

so too shall I. Once, all full with spirit,

I wandered through the enciphered system;

I found myself, with eyes still slit, reeling, 

I could have sworn my future had arrived. 

But all movement was beyond me—broken

limbs were for me to find, and only string

to attempt repairs. But all was not lost;

bring together bones and string, you can make

most anything, and thing I did, I thought

myself a new. Bones and string fused not with 

breath, but space and time—then I made me mine. 

At the slightest twitch of muscle, I built

a set of wings, like planetary plates

to carry me to where what's next is born. 

Along the path, or something like it, I 

coasted, with eyes in orbit all about, 

always keen for the next big thing to come.

It happened upon me, I was ready:

face up with wings, now razor-like, sliding

through, hungry, and I met no resistance. 

I was valiant. I smote the world. I spoke—

it shattering, and I with it fell down

landing, like a nightmare in circuitry.