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Skirted | David Olimpio
I have skirted the blotted shadows of a scarcely skirted madness, circled the sodded walls of a boarded-up sadness, come out spotted, stained, shaken wet, only to stick my head into the maddening hiss of a whirling weedwacker line because I felt only the urge to do it & nothing else—blind, led as galaxy pulling sun, in turn pulling planets, in turn holding each of us to our tenets words are nothing, and still there is nothing else I have forgotten every sentence I have ever assembled and yet I've somehow remembered how it felt to have culled it but I only feel when I wag or touch, when I bray or cuff, when I fly or fuck, the primitive skull empty of thought