The frail and singular fortress of the dissolving self

and there where we carried him, yes that was the part of it,
the only part of it we could actually say for sure,
and put his feet about him, his arms and hands arranged,
that upon the air of one who knew this and bore the likeness of us
where we contain the cellular of just having been there
and this is how we bore the air again through bands of wet flesh,
sparks, or simply by just being there as living serpent, younger,
and even still as serpent, this deception, this here and there, assisted
by a twist and an ocular likeness, calling him the living serpent this,
of stars, sparks, dragging him in to call here and there, thin yellow affairs,
distant pulling of tide, to hide what should be a resemblance to him,
fixed and stoic, considered remarkable, this, of course, of course,
must be before the fire that could on his table or flesh hung younger
and again for him with considerable resemblance about the curve of your eyeball,
the air of one who had been in this world, one who would fuse sand particles
like heavy bands of karma, his own personal stuff, perhaps more than
the last time
fixed upon the inside curve of the darker shadows, the night, were it possible
to father such a son and him, of darker shadows here and there, simply
clad as fire,
yellow letters in stillness, in resemblance with bits of fire, sky on
the inside,
on the resemblance to him, being through himself as living serpent
yes, living in the black sky, the stars aghast at the here and there.

and yet, the sand, his affairs, the gentle responding curve of his eyeball
had all been seen as well and also where the smoke must have been
as signs of life about him that could provide him that air of these
two and the fire,
the night, the writing of thin yellow lines, the expression even then younger,
and nearly as could be discerned a deception, assisted by speaking once again
one for the other.

he was not breathing.

but the thing about light, the part of it as expression,
the part of it that makes what is, is, this here and there, this part of him,
the part he couldn't help but see as resemblance, having been an
ocular deception,
the likeness of even, yes even, the living serpent, this, who would
not have had expression other than bits of this here and there, this,
of course, was not about to be discerned;
this of course, must have been part of his affairs that would call for
the last of his own personal stuff, seen as remarkable as were his
particles, the sparks,
even the hearts of unseen people making it possible for him with
considerable resemblance to have discerned the deception

still that night, curiously, it was remarkable to him that by opening this door,
he would never be the same, his life, his world, the things he held
most dear to his heart, this here and there could be no longer and
would call to him loudly at first, then fainter,
and  then fainter still from the earth, time, this spot, endlessly malleable,
irreversibly benign what became in that instant the landscape of his
resemblance,
the arena that held his words, the frail and singular  fortress of the
dissolving self without speaking, without a fixed upon course, without
reason or pattern of thought,
he realized he would forever carry the same rank and considerable bearing
made possible that night by such formidable deception
the great black snake, just being there, not responding, the ache,
the dull useless throbbing, just being the here and there of it,
even just being the solitary traveler though it all.

- Peter Ciccariello