W. B. Keckler

A SHELL,

A Scarab shapes the world from dung. A language dreams a culture automatically. You thought you could pour meaning into this vessel like water but now you laugh. Pictures swallow other pictures. Swallows picture other swallows. Most chimeras are merely hybrids. Chance. Table of the Elements. Make a scene by beating your head against it. Perceptions coast. The way there is no choice in pain. Since a mind is based in somnolent comfort. Like a story told quietly at evening, this seems to spook the world. Construction surmounting desire. I hold this empty spiral seashell that smells like your navel. Matter curving its arms around. Frozen energy. Find it.

Suck on its cold geometry all day.

 

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