From My Forehead

He seems to be in front helping me look out of my foreheaded self. Listen to me: prone night. I was its actual first child cutting a path with my sword through its vapors. Then I subdued night until the desert was clear and a disk shone above. I am the hero of the struggle between de- spair and illumination, which is not a shaky buoyancy but claritas. The name of life or that you see at all. Just look. If you kill yourself nothing will happen. No choices but pedestrian actions a lying story: you have done nothing. You can be a detail — a scurrier — garbage you leave, a fit of nerves, propagating that. The front of my looking out pulls beauty taking me taking you. The scab in the sky is gone. We have to go beyond our calculations and the small words. Why a golden fringe on shirt come quickly riding the best horses. And nux is what night the worthless was, as I sang, We don’t have to believe the petite poetries. Hooves are pulling us across the yellow sands: lost in a word, led in a word I got there. I can never turn back, you see and you can never turn back.