Notes on Dwelling

I am endless deaths, 

a mirror reservoir of infinite images,

keyholes,

openings,

cracks in the floor to something more Nobody than Myself.

Hearth: alchemical mind-body,

carries around its timber

always ironing new names, ideas (compounds): 

scissors --- binding --- glue --- books --- stones ---

I carry a stone in my pocket to tell me where to go. No one tells me where to go. I go where I go and at the end of the day the stone is still in my pocket and I place it by my bedside and I go to sleep.

Nightly experiments.

Imagined medicine men.

Bedroom walls: magazine cut-outs:

Conglomerate faces.

Gathering of spirits.

Shelter for homeless thoughts adrift in momentary existence.

Room is mold of inner dialogue. When you pull the drain all’s left are symbols:

Transmutation.

Invisible dwelling.

Eternal life: (is this it?)

(A dirty sock on the floor.)

(The door creaking open and shut with the attention I give it.)

Ghosts are not to be feared: if you follow them calmly down their dark hallways and pay no mind to yourself they will flutter out the ceiling. Or: if you’ve the nerve:

Cohabit in your dwelling.

Polyamorous mortification.

Affirming life: the millionth “yes.”

(Why self-crucify? I am alive.)

This is your gold: a pair of headlights you mistook for eyes.

You embraced the eyes. You walked past.

Perhaps you matched the demon with your gaze.

So long as you did not shiver.

Then again: 

they were only headlights.