by Heikki Huotari
Who’s ultraviolet. What’s stationary. Does the skin you’re in best represent you? Is your donkey costume still the riot that you are inside? If you shout out a number is it funny? If the brain is origami-folded then unfolded it’s a pillow case or lunar sail. If slightly better than expected it’s a miracle, if slightly worse it’s a betrayal. Whispering is
listened to, as possible as fossils, in a loop on which both grief and grievance feed. The mic picks up the amp. It’s not the wrong I do but what possesses me. Do you know of what subset of the real numbers I’m the indicator? Now, with practice, spots have spots at every scale. To use the name of Satan use the name of Satan but in vain. Dogs laud me
for the good I do for cats, i.e., for those less fortunate, and vice versa. Coconuts and crows have categories to remember. To graffiti, Itsy Bitsy climbed the wall; then came gray paint and dried. Who is to say the trefoil knot is chiral? Artifact of lens and toe of sock, the sand stands in for glass. The clones close up; they were but funny once. If it’s a marathon I’m training for it’s four AM. In nature
there are no straight lines but to disturb the surface, I bring nuance to the liar’s try. Insinuation is the name. Insinuation is the game. As where there is a barrier there is a countdown clock, I’m adjectivally unmodified. I’m alternating at causality as at a window and on stilts. I will have one immaculate conception. An amendment to a constitution is forever so consider neither the attorneys general of vernacular tranquility nor notice how and when they work the room.