A worm is not a worm until it recognizes itself.

Frilly sounds are for the weak-hearted.

I build a house of worship. For self-improvement.

I can be inaccurate, sure.

You seem to like to lick splinters.

Tell me why.

Something about feeling the edge of time.



Somewhere in this house, you are crawling.

Mother of the Mother Tongue

Origin is the name of what spills despite stillness.

A window is a mirror who lost their touch with an elsewhere.

The future thinks of their dislikes and I store those names in eggshell reliquaries.

In my bedroom I kill the ants of the dream and place them upon a bed of inaccuracies.

No one can claim to know how my body was first assembled.

In the bottomless of sense-making, I incubated this offering.

                                                                    I modeled the beginning of tranced breath.

I knock on the door of death. I do not wait for an answer.

Mother of the Imagination

                                                                                                           So much of the work of oppression
                                                                                                           is policing the imagination.
                                                                                                           Saidiya Hartman

I call the non-self-governing to feed me fevers.

I take a grain of rice and make a roof.

I choose nonsense over your genocidal lifestyle.

I meet with a century-old tree and listen.

I throw a handful of expectations into a falcon’s mouth.

I challenge the spring rain to whip you into a better inhabitant.

I will not remember what you said about nostalgia.