the primordial doctrines ingrained in me a perpetual longing for a tree house. a small nook to put my favourite things in. a bird nest crocheted with trinkets, letters, seeds and flowers, teeth and nails, the formative raptures, the familiar sores, all my beta versions, the collectibles of my composition. there is no ritual but to sit in the centre. the prayer is to our clutter. "Oh, traces of events!", say it together. on them, the past is imprinted. an imperfect portal to states of selves that have gone extinct. and how i'm a hoarder
of semblances
of reconnection
of what's amputated from this
reality that keeps
freefalling
from my grasp
how do you keep an archive in a library that is burning?
we write and rewrite and we write and rewrite
but the letters keep fading, the pages vanishing
our decay is enzymatic. can a systematic
remembrance re-member the
dismembered?
such is the prologue of this childhood tree that is a town
a wunderkammer of my own design
my museum, an exhibition of our ingredients,
there i am, always and again, the sole audience
i'm a possessive one
--
the stage is a raft. the end's still a draft but
float they will all, to a
water
fall
020524
P.S. It's a bit greedy of me to post this in all 3 of my anthology but since this is also loosely about my recurrent theme that is how i'm frucking anxious about dementia, this should be fitting
