Misreading the Diablo of misreadings
People made out of stone and turned into
this soft jam (for reading and writing)
The desire to be clear and crystalline
rather than this pus of fundament
posing as a thing that hunts. Granite
sand, silt, muck and swamp weed
each in radiants along a chaotic curve
we name creativity as if it had a mind.
Each according to its own jurisdiction
rules about how each piece fits into
the other, without destroying either
ideally, so all may flourish, changing
into birds and insects, gelatinous
floaty things in the wet places where
stone has melted into water. We are
that water, innovated over durations
swallowed by larger and more monstrous
durations that seem to sing. I watch
myself freezing back into the stone slag
I was, where equality doesn’t mean
a thing except the end of this, a life