I am trying to get to the matter in matter that is
thein matter, thethat is fluid like melted
candlewax like the new moon like an Aum like the Puget Sound
adapts to changes in terrain, personalities, and air matter
becomes possessed with. The wind as a force is a muted vowel
airs consonants in the brush of pine branches and sidewalk leaves
whose aspirated breaths roll into each other, up, into the human
2.
ear. My mind thinks it hears its human’s name. What it hears is traffic squeaking
on tar. In milliseconds between inhaled sound and exhaled thought, soundwaves
(matter or?) shake the ear’s drum’s cells made of Rutherfordian atoms
that are ninety-nine percentwhich means tiny bones filled with marrow
are ninety-nine percent. They pass vibration through the snail
to neurons messaging a chant: name name name reaching the Rutherfordian
brain to echo Nanna hēsaru and Thoom, the mridangam’s bass note
blends bends cowhide on jackfruit wood, friction drowning
background traffic, transmuting sound to the music of a gulp
3.
rising likemeaning to make itself heard. Somewhere on the spectrum
a color longs to elongate its wavelength constraint without infringing
on neighbors. White friends call tanning what I call repression. I look
toward the mountains. A V opens. This is ritual my head’s rite
to tilt gaze from one azure to another, from one blue to a deeper cerulean
where rules lean and middle wavelengths reflect water,
water, also ninety-nine percentgifted body by the spasmodic
waltz of electrons. Breathe in oxygen and hydrogen atoms displaced
from another. Breathe out carbon and oxygen, render them lifeless.
Breathe in Brahma Breathe out Shiva. Along the street,
I walk brick by brick over ants. Smile. Try not
4.
to think. Let the mind be water where no thought lingers
not even a cicada’s hum, a father’s breath. Being occupies the river,
opens to white clouds that will not be after the sun
sets behind stones. I run in the direction of the longest
wavelengths meditate on waves strengthen lungs to expand
thoracic, to protect a kingfisher behind ribs,
a hidden nest displaced into bannion trees where I rest when I sit
closing my eyes, where I do that thing I do to air with my nose
5.
in the subconscious tense. I speak to myself in imperatives.
Hold this black cube of matter in your palm. Feel
lacquered metal rap your knuckles. The half moon lights you.
The eight-year-old boy in you runs to spin the block pivoted in the ground.
Slow steps, churning legs, spinning. The electrons
within shift in perpetual motion, perpetuating illusion. What is
solid will not fall apart for unexpected reasons. What is solid
is fluxing danger there is no escaping. Watch the cube spin
on momentum. Watch this black diamond slow by friction
of skin of hands of wrists of arms of joints of body. All magic
starts in thisbetween electrons in fingertips that are wands
preparing a final trick: the converse of disappearance.
