Uvia Shcho

JŌB AND/OR DRACULA finally peed out the spider— the mind is drafted by the soil— microperforations in the hand where the heavy oaken door has splintered from the needle— patiently observed from the trees in their urban perches, in their mountainside revels— learning thoughtlike pastimes that take the place of thinking— to resist the injunctions of these pages— when does God excite desire or desire wish to see itself— the moments you find yourself thinking about something you have firgooten the word for— in any language— or, forgetting the resolution— be right, without flaw— protesting the extent to which you have slept— privately holding it to be a fiction— subtracting another ethos from the symbolic order— consider the exaggeration that is human thinking— everything that will happen already has— the universe excluded the universalists exclusive— Eric processed in their jaw— what we couldn’t embody or defer— the spirit will light on Phaedrus— shed these materials for a feudal meditation— the hairshirt 90s— the resurrection in this direction— the resurrection of this direction— a product of momHim’s petri dish to see if momHim can pass the infernal tests of logic: create theological equals— can El Shaddai turn a creation free from momHimyer purview— can El Shaddai create a puzzle impenetrable to momHimyer— I’m afraid that’s just poetry and music— always Heraklitus, never Parmenides— an icon of the Virgin and an icon of Peter Rabbit— anti-Heraklitus, against karma, and entropy— single in time or without it— worldview unchanged in soon there will not be one— they drive cars and think they’re saved— mnemonic shavings pointed as a prayer— at this moment you are suspended in judgment— you know this because you are surrounded by the phenomena of the world— and phenomena are things made of the mind— but science has proven you merely a body— innocuous food, hermenucleus architecture, what the spiders came to say— gon’ read right into it— with the courage to press record— by astral means and narcocorridor— laterally by stray thoughts’ testimony— to accept that testimony in material form— make them into a grammar that can be inserted— frayed ends bend toward the second person— in the basement with Andy and El Shaddai— the shit Nico sent me when I asked him for new theological pronouns— whose footstool’s Olympus Mons— turning to the sun, the inner space of the solar system is completely allegorical— feel the bristles rise as biomarkers are scanned in waves of Venus sulfur— twin sister— went to sleep praying to be touched by momHimyer— and dreamt of spiders the size of my chest— and awoke with a grin just as wide— desire licks the edges of nonexistence— the wheezing prostate held in contempt— this moment I can bear the poem— but if you like the poem you probably won’t like what I named it after— probably true, almost impossible to bleev— two indexes to the uncollected poetry— by daylight and starlight— one I call Jōb and one I call Dracula— the dream to an injury that in stacks is euphoric— whoever thought up positivism hadn’t met aging— she touches the bundle of nerves adrift from the cervical spine— right and without flaw— protesting the self the extension has slept— dividing time into light and to dark— concepts of but not exactly attached to that binary— alcohol by volume, say, broken glass— in a recycling bin— whether there is a tangle in the apparatus of feeling— or an actual bruise in the physical structure— if the injury is karmic it participates from the law— or as a punishment it comes from outside— and while residing in the poem— I feel moved to the good— it doesn’t exactly correspond— to the words we were using— one water, one sphere of objectivity— one silence, one subjective position— what is coming is outside of the world— the soul of that part is reflective— but not so far as one might think— Ж

Uvia Shcho is a migrating molecular biologist whose sights are set on the shores of Western Canada.

 
 

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