Creation

Sometimes when he sobs or cries, he pukes up shit through his eyes. Sometimes in a laugh or guffaw or titter, he throws out a feeling or two as litter. Sometimes, when he uses an unusual or clever word, and all are impressed, or someone submits to being undressed, he knows himself absurd. Sometimes when he picks his nose and flicks it on the grass, he’s pretending he’s fucking some girl’s ass. Sometimes when some snot he flicks, he feels at last that he exists.

Onetime when He fiddles about with a rib, it is a woman blurted into man’s crib. Sometimes when woman stoops to eat an apple, it constitute the crime of crimes. (Did you note that there I stopped the stupid rhymes?)

But the fist is always fist. And inside me lies a point, a core, tiny, evil, enduring; eternal, even, perfect. That dot, a remnant and echo of the big bang, that explosive thing, that gutted eternity with time, that raped emptiness with light, that fisted a symmetry of perpetual peace with an explosion of fundamental force.