The Stranger at the Keyboard

I.

Have the heart such giv’n take, that it does thrust me
as a lance, then tumble me to dust—to garbage rust; towards
heathen hollows that reside in the lightless womb of the earth, thus
proceeding downwards, heavy, to fiery snout.
I carve the sky with swinging arms; I stab fast at the air.
I scatter these four walls with heaving explosions, and yet,
I shrink, like a shriveled worm baked upon concrete.
I die, then rise again, with every fall of a heartbeat.

Once ago, when scraping the gunk of symbols from my fingernails,
this pang came as though a knock, as though a small-ish devil,
inviting the possibility that doors of mind exist.
A pause, a form of wishing one could say, stayed that knock behind.
However, like a dream that comes on the second Sunday
as clockwork, a knock keeps knocking
until there is nothing left to knock.

So knock it does, and knock, and knock, and knock.
So it means to pendulate—to swing, and swing, and swing.

II.

For my shadow, I am not of curled eyelids. I am not of
shivers and bed pissings, of quakes in the groin, of willfulness.

For my shadow, I have no bones, no tongue that may alert me
once hunger’s been slaked. Skinless fibers hold nerves gone spasm.

For my shadow, for that whether-or-not my shoulders shall
bend upright, this dismay dialect hoist me, hoist me high, hoist!

III.

Thank the heavens that all is not as all, that
singulars are true, that strange stringents ride chaos and
direct the cosmos as an equestrian with a violent hoofed star twixt the legs.

Should these walls form tighter, or fail completely,
thanks to the logorrhea that distract me from that
ejection or narrowing crush.

Pound at the keys, make music through dot dot.
Tedious knock, befriending shadow, all us here in this horridus
dot dot dot dot dot dot dot.

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