Apparently there is a correspondence between the heart and the sun.   I’ve seen the chrysalis of my cardiosolar orb, which is itself a great eye; the only eye with which it can be seen, the only eye that can see itself.    The union of the heart with the sun is the mark of – of what?   No mark needs to be made, because there is no one to make it.  I am not the one speaking these words.  I have no theory.   I am not trying to communicate anything.   I refuse to convince, at this point.   There are channels of squawking bread lifting its lips to the golden urine that I made in my black bed.    I act before I understand what I am doing; this makes for my sainthood even as it makes for my culpability.    

My sadness and my joy are two great orbs.  I hold them in the same hand; they whirl underneath my skinny elbow.   The exhaustion is unbearable.   Slits form between my eyes while I stare into a bookshelf.   I have chosen to enhance my sex so that a new religion can pipe the voice of revelation through a cum-caked laptop speaker.   Barbs form on my fists while I wait for the next lady to enter my new domain.