I am in a boat on glassy water. The shoreline recedes and blurs in grey mist. I turn my head and the sea line blurs grey. I turn my head and turn my head again. A grey plain recedes and I’m there, I’m not there.
Once in new privacy a vision lit in shadows on the walls of my mind. I am the body and the shadow in the light of the introcosm. Once pots were struck and broken and their shards scored to log possessions. Once one conceived of a way home. One once was one in search of itself. Consider in prevenient counsel the secret kingdom: the sensa of lonely experience, what one is and may do.
In turning my head, the world turns to me. I am on rails. I am in the sunlit garden of a villa. I follow a pale blue butterfly. I have wireframe hands, skeletal hands, hairy arms and glassy pink nails. I pinch my fingers and create blocks. I raise my arms and suspend gravity. Blocks float. I lower my arms and they fall. The floor around my waist is a grid in infinite recession. In a glitch I lose a leg.
Each chromosome has a centromere, a constriction point, the body divided into a short and long arm. An ideogram shows the relative size of each and their banding pattern, a series of light and dark bands showing the location of genes. There are twenty-three pairs, or twenty-three plus one, in my son, who has a third at number twenty-one. There is no poetry that is not his.
Counting to writing: mind extended through social information. I wash out the mouth of my idol. I journey to high, rocky places and immerse in steam to hear the oracle. I flay myself and induce the divine voice. Silence and I pray. A bird bursts up from the copse nearby and flies crying to the horizon. In manifold and spacious chambers the agony of the tail end is our agony, in lonely data fit.
I trace light with my hand. I draw in black space. I wave and create stars. I open my palm and a menu flies out. I have a tail and shake my hips. My ears grow. I am a naked woman. I have horns. I am ten feet tall, two feet. A hand strokes mine. I have three arms and pop balloons. I am a lobster. I create a doorway by imagining one. In the luminous forest I fly in wasp-grammar by fire spores.
What forms minds may inhabit and forms govern minds. Motility, tail forms, sensitive nipples, physical and mental mutability, mild or partial androgen insensitivity, hypospadia, hairlessness and hips. I enjoy lingerie and the rising line between nylon and skin, yours or mine, sobject intersex conditions. All I love just like me squat over petals in sunlit garden, fabric and dark slash of the eye, butterfly.
Silence and prayer. I lift my eye to the hill. May the Gods who have thrown me off give help. Why is my heart so sad and my features so distorted, my face like unto one who has made a far journey? I am alone in experience, my character cast in chemical shame, my eyesight splitting as I move, touch or imagine moving and touching. God spoke to me, but no more, and in silence I will now be many people.
I am a shoal of fish. I am a whale’s fin. I am a crowd. I am a mass drone construction project. I am an isomorphic digital entity incarnated as a white blood cell in a mapped body, travelling. I am a camera in projected space. I am a disembodied consciousness and the mind of a room, a mist, a field and wind, iris and precision weapons system. I move with my breath through deep water in space.
Been protein, emerged from matter, divided into infinite life, born, cut loose by divinity, father, information glitch in transition, versions of a man and a woman, urethral glitch, homuncular flexibility. Heard once the lost voice: don’t be scared, don’t be. Black milk star cloud in room’s corner. New life is made in mind digitally, the imaginal stage of our latest imago, a new reality.
Lay down, lovely, under the hill, under the sun and the clouds. Lay down under the moon and look out through our wasp eyes at the streaming stars. Laugh at how we burst from ourselves, and laugh at the husks of our previous constraint, no more mere human.