1 + 1 = 0 / Body Time No More
The days elongate into shortening hours, into the stiff guard hairs of a dog
Each breath breathes into and through the obstacle of its own breathing
Body sometimes body
If you asked the meaning of an aphorism, I’d say the widening tail of a peacock on fire
1 + 2 = 0
Say there was a lunar eclipse. Literally. Say: there was a lunar eclipse
Even I get tired of this way of talking (museum map of the mouth, diorama of my mammal body on fire)
1 + 1 + 1 = 0 0 + 0 = 1
Figure this out: we are born; we learn to talk; we die
Nobody has ever died, says Takahashi Shinkichi in his one-line poem, “Death.” 0 + 0 + 1
Let’s say Richard Hugo was himself a river. The Blackfoot. The Duwamish
Literally, let us all together say: Richard Hugo was himself a river. The Blackfoot. The Duwamish
Feel the surge and glow of bone. The Whiskey Creek. The aspen leaves dropping into what moves inside us
If I were a beagle-hound, asleep. If, as a coonhound, I became a verb. If my chop-mouth. My restless. If my Indiana bawl-mouth. Howl. If I—my mouth—might stink. Might stop at the foot of a shagbark hickory and cry out—upward—into what fear fears me most
That was the summer I kept my silver dollars and, instead, paid good folded money for a dog
1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 6?
There are six chakras. A seventh step once we remove the stepstool of the tongue, move from what holds us, into a word purifying words
Let’s say we are what we think. Let’s just imagine that—this time not really saying it
Figure this: we die; we learn to bodiless-breathe; we come back over and again until the earth says we need not return anymore
Feel the surge-bone glow. The hound dog crossing the creek. The whispered creek. Aspen leaves dropping their shadows into all the gold within us
All the gold within us. Where words number-numb our mouths. And 0 + 0 = the world
