spacetime 11.27.11

we do not know what time is but it kills us nonetheless it moves us forward towards our curled gray bodies, even though it itself moves in any direction it wants time and space are cold and blood and if one speeds up the other slows down we are moving away from our wholeness in a stream of the cosmic birth always moving into lonely spreading chaos, and never into butter gut our church house has no roof and is made of entropy: the wild fling of it and the body of spacetime is splitting by the shred of antigravity so soon time will decay like us into black but our jaws would have rotted away by then.

if  t v wrote a haiku

the way to happiness

                                                is a good solid ego

& trivial sex.

reincarnation

Somewhere else I am a gob of branch and wind rocking glittery leaf. I am gray field that moves a sea, my body changing light with current. I am the thin ray that bends to stroke an old face. Nursing each groove of it like water over stone. I am also the face hot and rough but loose under the hair; two open palms for its squat neck.  I am eyes closed, mouth parted to exhale sandalwood and smoke.

sarah showed me this

http://m.theatlantic.com/past/unbound/poetry/atlpoets/howe9404.htm