They tell me I’m Mexican and Seminole and carry the aura of a lean voluptuous beauty. That my face is tanned like fragments of rye, that my waist is a finely spun silver wich vibrates. Of course, I have never seen my schema whole on, or witnessed my own proflle, or visuallytested my own emetics as shadow.
I am blind, my eyes tragically scorched in the womb. I was born as a vapour at the end of a frayed November sun, untreaceable, blown about like a seasonless dusk at rainfall. Of coruse, I’ve coagulated over time, by taking on the airs of the crucified, then giving vent to personified regality. Now, I’m merely considered a strange fictitious humming, an ancient tigress caught in shale. Perhaps I am a terminal bride from a negligible Diaspora, culled from a wavering menagerie in nothingness.
They say that I hallucinate because I’ve announced the death of my living mother, although she trembles with every utterance of my name. Of course they never reveal to me the context of her whereabouts, or the present procedure of her wayward contrivance.
If I am contorted by the continuous onyx in my eyes one can never tell since my eyes don’t blink, and I stare in space like a somnolent in-vector. Therefore I could never be accused of galactic infection, or causing by my motions stars to be sundered so that they rise and explode.
If I am complex, it is because I inhabit an eternal inferentiality, this being my own zone or plane where I attempt to unifY the starkness which writhes in my mental gargantua. Because of this wrenching I’ve acrrued a sense of my person so that I sense my enemies when the waver, when they collect themselves and combine themselves in the wake of duplicitous evils. They seek to ensnare me in their wiles as though they had ingested an array of sum;fallen from a grave. And this is not based on a false mnemonic, or errata which have risen from my personal debasement. No. It is like an incisive lightning in the wisdom, a engenderment which comes from circling a heightened reptile’s hissing. And this hissing, like the psyche of concussive toxins, or a primeval leather claimed from thwarted lynxes.
I am an individual whose movement is like the diabolics of wasps, abrogating, insisting, upon a wild inclement honing, yet with another range of apparitional neutering. In this sense I have surmounted the stasis and antistasis of physics, of the spark of its translocation, even when the fire of evapouration transpires. I have fallen through a world transcribed as erasure, yet always forming in my voice the beauty of magnets in screaming. The ruined integers, the broken entities in my speaking. And because my nerves burn and scatter so strongly, it is useless for me to depict my own jealousies as they seek to ascribet hemselves to a baleful or in-luminous counting.
For me, life is a water of circuitous electrical transmissives canying in my wake an electrically studded bodice. Because of this I now understand bereftment and waste, knowing them to be the stunning nouns in wicked rural pictures. Given this realia I am inoculated against shivering reminiscence, against a worn genetics, against roving holocaust memorials.
With the aforesaid in mind you could say that I have sworn against my family, against its rotted murals, never once provoking sentiment as a private occultation. First of all, let me weigh my anger in terms of grammes, by existential leaning into torment, drinking down potions from chronic degeneration. Understanding that the blizzard of language is tourniquet, is force field, is armadillo warren, is the signaling of molecules through a curious storm of diacritics. Because, what remains for me is the miraculous embodiment of bitterness, of in-fabulatory osmosis, filtering through my body as vacuum, like an immaculate serpent’s light possessing the dementia of remorseless debacle.
This is my enigma, born under the sign of an implicate algetics, yet my body giving off the vapour of succulence and rainfall. I make no pathway to any outer specification, instinctively knowing that I cease to lend my kinetics to the explicit, to the momentary. It is because I have transmuted the sepulcher of panic, the frozen modicum as denial. I only want to express those blank and indivisible tourmaline enrichments, those fingers choosing the most creative and poisoned symmetries which decline and overtly minimize as quanta.
As I masquerade by anaemia, yet refusing to take into account my graft by incelibate soaking, or the deprivation condensed in my pestilential wizardry. Because of this I’ve been accused of psychically sprinkling cinders, maiming the very attributes of wheat. Ah, they say, she cats her burning spores upon the waters by making nature vibrate as though-expressing an interior ulceration. It’s like making an occult vibration in space, creating powers imbued with electrical in-harmony. This becomes for me a wiry millenarian weaving full of corruptible psychic debris. Having taken from my world a hysterical potion of stamens, then adding a glossary of tainted mineral oils, giving me the power to ransack an old Dutch crucifix with serpents. And I think of these serpents as being at the cusp of present possibility, flying and reacting like mosses under a prior, yet convivial atomization, 100 million years ago.
Therefore, any truth that I seem to capture can only be tested as a force across a stunning parallel dimension racked by duality as voltage. Thus, I admit to focused thirst, to sunlight formed by gregarious erasure. Again, I am like a sun powerfully quartered in mazes, speaking of a light weakened by bickering. And by bickering I mean the tropopause of bickering, strangely structured by a seeming anti-harassment. Thus I admit my rambling affliction born as Zomaya’s deadly and in-factorable secretive beast. Of course I am not speaking to myself as a scattered memorial, but attempting to square the dice in my forehead with dialectical gestures inside the circumstance of fire.
Everyday the nuns seem to whisper that I am buffeted by scorn, governed less and less by the voice that rises from rational accommodation. To them, my voice explodes like short-circuited pyres. Perhaps this is the result of my struggle for existence, for my existing as a less monitored substance. And what I mean by less monitored is the inscrutable in life, those rays which escape the contagion of a death-induced consensus. The nuns say that I am traveling along spoors which hallucinate, which describe themselves as biological remnants, as atomic cryptography. They whisper that I have smpassed restrained ideals, that my behaviour has been distorted by declivitous sensitivity. Yet I exist to myself as that hierarchical witness like a bird soaring off from anonymous blue shale.