Resurrection of the Hermaphrodite

Image by Bialy--Gallery: Epiphanies on the Road to No Place

What will you relish
in swollen afternoons
with childhood aggression and ecstasy?
Tall ones blue ones,
infinite vertical colors of the night.
If your aura expand to the stars.
Ribbons and doors.
Vertical rows, windows.
Who are they
that they come walking,
taller than anyone.
Emissaries of heartless order.
The double gendered genitals and neurologically untoward development.
And who are these, ordinary people, to declare such conditions anomalous?
Such thoughts discount us.
Every moment subtended by intimations of abjection or terror.
The female wand.
The walking windows.
Colors stolen from night.
The indigo opens on its own shadow ecstasy.
Who would invent such chromatism
But that duplicity splurges,
Motility frozen.
Fragments of nourishing disquietude
Will neither despair of abstraction.
If there are maps here they too
Writ through with a certain duplicity.
They will take you wherever but vibrate
Inessential vestibules.
This unknowing does not cease being feral.
The skittering animals in the green of the roadside under moonlight,
Here and not here, there and then not.
Effacing the silence
Particular to other languages.
The restless dead confused among the deposition of gonads.
What if they do return—
What life do they find there, what edginess.
Though the colors are singular and beautiful.
Beautiful the singular edginess.
We are vehicular.
Up and down the middle pillar
A solace of indigo.

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