Odes To The Secret Canons #45: Specifractiplasty

jef Safi, C’est parce qu’il hésite à jeter les dés qu’il tient l’éternité dans sa main . . [CC BY-NC-ND 2.0]

I give unto you the failure of the oracles I cast in the palm of spilling dust
I give you the failure to abrogate our dropping of possibility
in how even dust climbs into the wind
how the trees themselves conceal the secret rising
and spreading into living green of unseen soils and ungathered wet
in how what does not rise must drop I give you the oracle beyond all oracles:

I give you the failure to step beyond the decree we cannot now harken again
I give you that we cannot escape the fact of doors in every wall
I give you that we cannot leave the fact of ground to walk and sky to meet
I give you that we have shattered every roadmark where we must yet venture
I give you that we shattered every terminal mark where we yet must raise lifted abodes:

every hour contains the oracles that it broke
every hour is made upon the oracles that poked through the failure of oracles;
where the shatterends and the obdurate proven rounds of the oracles heap around
our ancestral tombs and our compost and our cool and secret shrines;
every hour spills the mud of how our daily rounds thick up
into the totality and the total pile of every whole and every shattered oracle:

with blistered fingers lifted up into cooling overhead
I ask of each and we
what burned impersonal fingers rub upon our faces,
seeking what understanding that oblivion seeks
even as understanding seeks itself upon the cutting bumps
of blind and pliant surfaces
of blind and adamant roots of things that drink up dirt
to a more towering blundering
above the fundamental broad blundering
grounding all rising and all wide reconnaissance;

with blistered fingers lifted up
to contest the noon heat baked thick as dust into the breathing breezes
I ask of each and we:
how we shuffle our sorest fingers and refitted joints like cards
like secret tokens we seem to pull from one another’s mouths or ears
tokens we demur we tucked where our fingers turn to shade our palm
cards whose royalty are more austere
and more free of particular sanguine canalization
than those brows and chins made resolute
upon our most smeltsmooth tokens:

I ask of this, to each and we
how is it that we turn the cards and coins from fake oblivion
how is it that we conjured them up from the molten freeze
that has calloused our finer touch
that has rendered our own sense of mark dumber than the ore we ripped up:

every hour piles the breaking of prior years and winding in of daily same
every spreading of my palms casts a map I must found
upon the orient I swallowed like a stone
upon the roads I have founded because I drank streams deeper-in than pissing emptied
every spreading of my palms casts a map of only opening and no rest from abiding
every planting of my feet places me where the marks cannot fail to be carved anew again
across the ground where the oracles of dust were swept unread.