Oh, Hi Mark

Writing marks but does not leave
marks. As the emphasis on images
suggests, aesthetic is everything.

Yet I remember, holy,
redness, kisses. There is no lack
only excess.

Vomit, headless.

With each nostalgic
shivering the body speaks.
Disappear? No.

Mark absence, red rage of fear–
to beat the clock, to keep a beat, to dance
is repetition; grotesque to rid oneself

of cacophony.

That squirming flesh, which hums and sings!
The silence of the speaking

voice is a violence
to my ever shifting being. Like sand
I drift away, back into the void of me;

Comfortable with many deaths I climb
awkward between the window
of my own teeth.

I've worn many masks and faces

All True, all False, all spirits
of performative blending, edging
up against authenticity. I choke on the violence

of unspoken words, for my excess is desire.
To write without limit of naming spaces,
in pity and jubilation,

(the hierarchical value of an apology)

undisturbed pleasure
upon release.