Breaking Seed

“Our job is to move against the world, rasping against it, as if we were a calloused blister and the world the object to lance it. The moving itself thickens the callous. But seeking in this rubbing a defect, a splinter, a shardedge, a faultline, a break in the surface that will rip or slit or tear or prick. Seeking in a defect of the world an instrument of liberation. In this hoped for puncturing of our container a violence of inspiration and the original legacy of the impossible, which is human time.”
The defect is in Her. And the pulsation of constant failure, of rising and collapse, of fusion and dismemberment, of arrival and evaporation – a kind of body of carbonation – The defect is met only by not running away, from Her. Odors of food, so fleshy as to be edible, moving by the mind like tunnel lights. Discipline lancing the blister: to not eat of aromas. Not turning aside. Vision fails and returns. A constant coming to. A single length of rebar finally reaches its burial point in her, extension from me. Holding this firm. Without hands, using only body to hold. Heat and power in the form of a claustrum. Pressure. A death threat, and a serious legal charge, under pen. Risking each of our lives, diving at the rusty nail head found in the stamen of the bloom. Violence accompanies the lancing. Through the torn place rage ghosts smoke. The torn page. Sunlight seen through a glory hole. Calm later. A meat Spring.