all vision, our vision
everything that’s envisioned
all tunneled through
the narrow shaft
I, I, I,
pierced like carousel horses
our thoughts ride
around its pole
I, I, I,
the moon skates silver
on train tracks beside us
and the sun skims the water
to land at our feet
we are Narcissus
seeing only ourselves
in all surface,
we are Pokemon
pronouncing only our name
in all conversations,
the human ﬁgure is also an i,
straight shank and nodding dot of grey
and does it
I will become a W and an E,
or would you wrestle me?
and bend me
The Romans numeralized I
and decorated clocks with it
with I’s for hands
clocks tick like a heart
I, I, I,
I want my I’s to clatter
like a house of cards
I want my I’s to scatter
like a pile of pick-up-sticks
I want my I’s to ruin,
I think therefore,
I IV I & I IV..
* Qo (quaestio) is the original notation for a question which eventually evolved into the question mark with the Q cut into the curve, and the O dropped below to form the dot.
He wooed me with wild bouquets of question marks.
By beckoning stems I was lured and tugged
toward the wide arcs of his mind,
the subtle question of his spine,
the touch of his nicotine hands.
On an island a hemisphere away
my waist stayed encircled by his shepherd’s crook.
(The one he used to pull me down the rabbit hole that summer).
So I got curiouser and curiouser, kept at arm’s length
trapped inside a cool metal question.
At times I grew tired of the instrument,
of the scythe, of the half-moon metal bracket.
But I knew I didn’t have to stay within its query.
I knew I could step out, pluck out all the jewelry he sent,
and tend to my body
pierced and snagged like a ﬁsh.
But I didn’t want to leave the interrogative arc, the curious crescent.
I wanted to make my way up the handle of the crook and grasp his hand.
I wanted to push my ﬁngers into the wet-warmth of his enquiring mouth,
I wanted to bite the skin of his equivocal lips, count the ribs
punctuating his chest, follow the line of hair descending
below his hips..
The calendar on the wall shed paper months
till I couldn’t stand the question anymore.
So I sold furniture, packed bags, boarded planes,
ﬂew to Los Angeles.
But when I arrived, he didn’t give me any answers.
Instead, he handed me more garlands of Q’s cut to curves,
more opaque subscripted O’s,
more bouquets of the wild questions
that hang like Christmas baubles,
from every branch,