Nabk 

Somewhere by the tree at the extremity of thought,
it’s November and I’m still hunting shadows.
You told me that most natural
action tends to follow an arched trajectory.
You told me about
the dots that stretch and squeal.
You told me to be always
at the ready to embrace the mystery.
And now, I’m helping employers with their needs.
I’m exploring the financial viability of empathy.
Everyday I’m learning extinction.
Everyday I pray to awaken
as a holy knight of the commercial city.
I see mirrored vistas and voluptuous   sniper rifles,
desert sands and metals sifting through flesh.
Plastics oozing into blood oozing into cum
slides down the dried out river beds
like phlegm in my throat.

It’s December and I’m still hunting shadows,
probably will be every month of the rest of my life.
I am a monocrop. I am a dry soil. I am a “roadkill”
or as a man once said to me, “fog’s morning bounty”.

My heart is becoming slick, like the sweat which still stalks my skin.
And the sweat, over years, like a river.
And the river, over years, like my veins.
Through this broken circle I
shape the body round the vowels of
mixtal choruses one over from blowing corpses.
We should all pursue becoming slime.
Where lie I? Behind your ridges was always why.
Your language-scape, I traverse like a sunny day.
ooooooooo\\\\\
and all dat

Your skinshape and the hope between two you’s.
The sucking and the squelching,
the mewing and the leching,
and the light that cuts through all things.

I love the way the hours caress you.
Like silt in the river bend, you leave small threads 
                                                    of yourself 
                                         cross the land.
Like turtle tracks, I stalked the path.
Like grass, the fur of the rabbit.
Like home, the rock ledges down to the river
                     sang like wooden stove. 

The water draining down the streets is always grey.
The Cathars were a 12th to 14th century Gnostic Christian movement
who regarded all water as unclean, as they said it had been corrupted by the earth. 
My knees crumble like dirt. My hands like that clay I was born on –
just under the berm, you had to dig to reach material or form.
I built mounds like  I build    my accretion of data
             flights like      I fly        around this dark earth looking for you.

I want to wrap you in a cocoon of my information
like your head between my thighs 
while you tower over me in dusk light.
I need you like the clouds need the sky – 
backdrop my affections, silhouette my afflictions.
Like I watched you pirouette in 9am snow.
Like I watched your tears through a zoom window. 
How you inched away from violence 
while I was moving in miles.
How you drew away like I drew a sword. 
Where the blade pierced, my skin was left sore. 
How do I know information wants to be free?

I always worry I am losing the ability to correctly distinguish.
You watched me gradually populate the rare failure region.
My wishful thinking. My exaggeration. My reversal. My escape. My distortion.
You were preventing complications, minimizing impairments, and maximizing function.
I was trying to cut out the empty space between reiterations.
You were honing your latent commercial energy.
I was trying to learn to trust my instincts.
I’m trying to explain something to you here in this rendering of glyphs.
If my phrasing is somewhat bent, it is only to try 
to form a mold of a space that can’t be contained:

1). The logic with conjunction and disjunction (spiral and anti-spiral)
2). (dark I) and ‘u’ combination and its long form yield what shapes?