at the bottom of every hole (the top of every soul) is an “ought"
this "not" (standing up in time) behaves as if a god wanted nothing more
than a tin-shack full of books beneath young redwoods in a place
like “California” where "nothing more" is the demand of the hole:
without an “earth” heaven is like grass without a wind & for the wind
there is nothing without these voids & their superfluities—they argue “the dead” provoke thee to take up the hard work of seeds, who, by these same holes, are to join in soil the without this grass & wind is not earth, not heaven & not any deity we know
nothing waits for eternity so why do we? to know is "perfect" ignorance if the wait gives weigh to omniscience
bees resist the deathless superfluities—a swarm of meaning
looks only for a home—a place to be bourn, no?
the willful foot that encourages the shovel
to resist the willful dirt because a being at work
is nothing like the being earth—that work is undone
only when being, by labor no life can endure
becomes a being eternal—there where the foot
is no longer a force.
what does it mean, this "waiting" but to open?
with what remembrance, this future where we must
with the most decisive abandonment of our lives
go (such a weigh!) that lest we forget
that which waits, certainly will
god is drowned so what is a drought but decay in denial? without
rain there are no holes to wait—an embryo’s weigh—the presence
of so many deities that even time, this capable slaughter, is of a kind endeavoring stars & planets deny each day of their lives though water be, for all eternity
for those who wake there is a universe, whereas in sleep each turns away
into their own expanse of place for to dream is a “common” to all alive
whereas the dead are both entirely “singular” & perfectly turned into one
it is said by none wiser than empedocles
that embryos & corpses ruin holes—uterus
of water & earth—strife born
to an existential whorl
held aloft as if air & fire
the waste & hollow not of life
but of god’s desire