YOU CANNOT TRUST WHAT YOU SEE OR HEAR

We keep butting up against bodily autonomy:
what is it like to have breathing breasts,
what is it like to see girl-gang-focused violence.

My mind ends up blocking them out
because I grew up in an area where bare breasts
rejuvenated a woman’s revolution

in a small, southern town of the eccentric norms,
where people are more accepting of disfunctionality
& ridiculous lifestyle choices, yet I still cannot

get behind the three-piece suit
even if I were Ken-like, so oddly imperfect
that perfection becomes blemished by the privilege

of categorizing a particular grim back-story
dealing with the sacred temple: our lighted Antiquitiu
like a fragile photographer or filmmaker

shooting inside of my ribcage, outside,
bone-to-bone, like adding adjectives to my body; 
I tilt the compass, adjusting the gyroscope

the way that the spinning mental-eye of the
Spermaceti Whale considers the shore-line
as being far, too far out-of-reach, as if

what is shallow is full of razor-sharp teeth,
shallowness loosening its pull with uncertain guesses
combing cartilaginous fishes from stormy waves.

I debunk books of conjecturing. Alarmed, scars
left within, like white elephants’ tusks scratching
the chalking residue inside your

inevitable vanishing sinews. I am virtually detached
from all of reality, whatever that is—even when I
close my eyes to dream, the belly-button of reverie

closes its gap; ink dries. Last night, in a dream,
she said, “your gray sweater is beautiful”—
That was the Mother Voice of the Dream

-Language that knows no fate. I feel lighter
upon awakening. What you see or hear could force
palaces to demolish. I will tell you a secret,

which will no longer be a secret—It is this:
a tiny part of the Universe morphed into my body
so that I could write poems, not only of ethereality,

but of fantasy fandom—Alicorns neutralizing poisons?—
whatever mysterious light had entered, entered me
with an unctuous mass, as if my body were wholly free

from bones, as if I were a gemstone outliving decay,
outliving the groin-pull of modernity, wagering
the existence with pounds of vanishable Undoing.

There is nothing to see, nothing to hear. Listen to me
when I tell you that I have fallen through the lens of my
camera, where I now dance upon the cornea of Infinity.