sometimes when you are talking i can't tell if you are drowning in the dark or what. the air just...lets out, just poof, silencio. that eerie hum, the eye before an explosion. i get to the edge of the knife & i just see everything verging on something. i see you gasping for breath in space but there is this buzzing & whoosh. all of a sudden the puzzle pieces clatter together. the same thing happens, maybe even more often, with the printed word. just looking at those meaningless scribbles, totally amazed & confounded by the spells that hold them together. the dweomers that make chicken scratches in ink into something more. on the page, they rorschach around, spilling out the secret of the brass legions of solomon bowl, of deep alchemies & then with a clatter, like silverware thrown down the stairs, the negative space resolves into the names of angels written, fiat nyx, in darkness. i'm hanging outside my body most of the time, living in the puppet strings the way a spider lives in a web. or a pistol in a holster. i could be bounded in a hollow point & count myself king of infinite space. or so i might say, when the truth of the matter is that i am bound in a nutshell. but what is the purpose of a seed but to burst? or a grenade. some have said that their life is a weapon. it isn't my life that anyone needs to worry about. but i am a weapon.