When I am done with self
When I am done with the augury of grasp
When I am done hand-filtering my entrails for better prophesy

I will ask

Why is the body central? Why must it be
equatorial, continent and channels I cannot navigate
to find my eutopian mecca

and by mecca I mean jerusalem

and when I say outopia I mean greek root
tibetan plateau and I mean my mother but also my father
and most damnedly my sisters

because who holds you really?

If I could stop spilling out and into
I’d end all days in a sad creeping toward god
that is, if gods made themselves available

to funk. I mean I’m going dancing

When I am done. When I am done
the praise-work of undulation
When I have finished idolatry of sense

through sex and art and food and sex

and music I will ask, Why did I feel
I had to seek some place other than
a body, and — why can’t I

fathom parse make a prayer

that at each sacred site a navel
proves its church a child not mother not aunt
sister father nor god of me unless I am also

a place you can’t get by going

When I am done with maps. When I am
done with dominion skin paper and the compass
rose petalthorns of son husband son and son

my god like fucking suns the stars

Ask after me
Ask this: what have you
moved? and I will be 


which is after all done again
only in a direction for whom we have
lost the name. And I will say — this

trying to mean mountains

(but won’t) and the transfer of them by teaspoon
into vast galactic storms where dust and light no longer
war in a defining of other but just to war (and won’t)

To war eternally and without malice

is a different peace I should have
no need to name. I should have no need of that
power over any thing or whom — naming

: but I do

I will never be done un-
doing. I know this like I know the light
beneath their scalps, which is to say —

please come, tonight, and out with me