Vesica for the Unname ’20s: In the warehouse-basement the air is a thin host, cold as filed marble; I lay vellum (skin pretending innocence) and draw charcoal slow — scrape, hush, smudge — until graphite grit blooms like dark communion on my tongue: anamnesis, ash-sweet [ ] ’10s: The drawer labeled UNPLACED yawns; mothwing powder lifts in a shiver. Radio-static threads the conduits — voices without bodies, bodies without names — while my hand, dutiful, advances across one cartouche that will not stay [ ] ’00s: Salt halos the seams — preserve/corrode — so letters flake into a gray weather. Lichen inks its patient green syllables along the margins; the pitting reads as braille-like prayer, unread, and the palimpsest answers only by smearing (do not unname) [ ] ’90s: Gloves snap; protocols hum; a clerk’s voice, clinical as mercy, slides fragments into acid-free sleep. Here the labels form a cenotaph, and the oval name-frame turns apophatic — kenosis in limestone — blank as refuge / blank as violence, both kept in the same mouth [ ] ’80s: Chalk outlines the absent statue, a white stigmata on concrete; I walk its perimeter as if circling a sephirah gone dark, refusing the deciding criteria, feeling it anyway — pressure in the wrist — as the stone under paper shivers, then steadies, refusing pardon [ ] ’70s: Fluorescents gutter; time counter-rotates, decade by decade, while my hand completes its forward crawl and finds — only air, an empty cartouche etched between breath and breath. I swallow the grit, and keep watch without a word:

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Vesica for the Unname

Ossuary for the Uncrowned: Veilwork HAND — Matins Floodlights stitch a false noon to chain-link — sodium glare, clinical, unblinking. We cross the gate into the municipal ossuary: plinths stacked like ribs; effigy torsos crated, numbered. Limestone dust lifts — ash without incense — and rusted bolts stud the slab, hard stigmata. Severed hands, chalk at the wrist, keep the old gesture — command disguised as blessing. not forgiven / not forgotten KNOCK. MOUTH — Prime A marble head lies face-down in gravel, mouth sealed to earth — learning silence by pressure. Ivy tongues the jaw; lichen salts the lips, o/e, slow psalm in spore-script. Here we would accuse — — but the air will not carry it. EYE — Vespers Bolt-holes hold rain — small chalices of torque; the sky reduced to dark coins. We cup one, lift it — our palms become a lustrum — then pour it back through the hole so the hollow rinses itself: not absolved, only cooled. Votive wax, warmed between thumb and knuckle, falls — soft counter-monument — and we anoint the broken plaque on its block, altar-stone, letting missing letters keep their witness. not forgiven / not forgotten THRONE — Lauds Between lines, time-lapse: crowns crack into grit-halos; iron blooms green; dust resettles like verdict. Kenosis spreads — emptiness with weight. Dawn arrives like a clerk, stamping light. We rise — orphans of our own kneeling — tongues chalked with ash, throats tuned to an unfinished amen. not forgiven / not forgotten

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Ossuary for the Uncrowned: Veilwork

The Nave of Late Hunger Who keeps the stockpots breathing after hours, their steam a white hush that climbs the steel like prayer learning muscle, while the fluorescent hum sutures night to tile and sirens outside write red equations through rain. Whom do I welcome when I lift the ladle — chalice-spoon, moon-sickle — drawing broth in slow orbits, portioning warmth with a tin-tick, as if mercy had a measurable volume. Bowl set down. Who enters and changes the room’s weather: shoulders dripping, eyes scanning exits, a stranger whose need is so ordinary it becomes occult — an unnameable presence in plain clothing — so that he is in the line and you are in my hands and we trade pronouns without consent. Bowl set down. Whom do these chipped bowls confess, hairline-cracked relics that hold without owning, their wounds finer than my ethics; dishwater turns to dark chrism, oil-sheen sigil-film, and bus tokens, coins, small alms-keys bloom in the drain’s throat. Bandaged fingers, soap-burned knuckles — stigma without theater — wipe, rinse, stack: clink, clink, then the room stops — SERVE WAIT LISTEN Who is the broken loaf behind the counter, never centered, always peripheral, and why does my shame recoil at the almost-recognition in your glance, as if refusal were a door I keep polishing. Whom do I fail each time I look away, and whom do I finally meet when I do not. After the last tray, a damp forehead imprint ghosts the tabletop; a napkin bears a grease-seal, host-shadow; steam rises, rises, as if the air were keeping communion for the one who eats last.

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The Nave of Late Hunger

Athanor Aperture SIFT / in the sub-crypt, sssh — flour atomizes into halo-ash, a pale aura seeking every pore of basalt; above, the choir’s paper-wings keep counting. SEAL / salt in its dish, vow-grit; candle stubs gutter, beeswax pooling into melted seals; linen folds like a letter that will not open; the brass key warms, tooth-star, in my pocket. NAME / the leaven without writing it — h/th — knead, k/g, until hunger, that feral theologian, learns a softer grammar; soot under nails, my honest dark. WAIT / cover the bowl; time presses its ear to the dough; the blank space swells— Still the sanctuary lamp, red glass, unlit — lumen withheld. SCORE / seven slashes: sigils-wounds; the blade writes what the mouth refuses; ash-thumbprint, accidental cross, at the edge. FEED / the oven-mouth opens — oo/oh — red, breathing; athanor-tabernacle; slide the host in, a flour-moon minted from ash and breath; heat snaps; crust answers in crackle. HIDE / pale rounds cool on the rack, small moons learning silence; Matins thins the dark to milk — still concealment deepens, still devotion and desire share a mouth, still hunger stays holy in the throat.

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Athanor Aperture

Litany for a Safelight Hear the choir’s chords thrum the floor as she shuts the door, stuffs towel to the threshold, and the room turns dark as plum-wine, only the red safelight blooming — a low planet, a heart. Trays wait like open mouths, chemicals breathing ether, each basin penciled: Fiat, Flight, Negation, Pieta— small sepulchres where emulsion decides what refuses to stay invisible. Feel paper pass between black tongs, host-white, lowered into tincture that swirls indigo when she turns her wrist. Timer ticks, ruthless metronome for prayer; she lets it overrun, lengthens the vigil, because some wounds ripen slowly. Outside, the world hammers for proofs on the grille; inside, fatigue pools violet beneath her eyes, silver stains her fingers in crescent moons where a ring once rested... See the submerged sheet answer, a hand surfacing from the blue-black, reaching before language, asking before blessing. For an instant I, the negative, behold her: face fractured in the metal tray, yes and terror braided in amber glance. She nearly slaps the switch, almost floods us with hallway ochre, but her heel presses the towel back into place, and in this chosen not-yet the cosmos holds still, images slow drip along the line, unseen, already looking out at whoever dares look in...

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Litany for a Safelight

Overshadow Calibration Log In the clandestine lab that hums beneath a sleeping town and above your present hour, she moves within her own perimeter of refusal, a closed anatomy among open instruments: sodium halo seething, dust ascending in unspent light, the blue lead apron hanging like an empty thorax awaiting overshadow. Observe the hinge of the hand-mirror where a single hair is caught: a frail cruciform suture between refusal and reception. Her bench is a minor cosmos of precisions — polished brass, prisms, black speculum glass beside a chalice slightly overfilled, slides once sterile now marked by latent fingerprints in a slow rosary of touch that never quite occurred. Note the pale ring of evaporated condensation encircling nothing: index of a heat-event hotter than doctrine, an invisible wound in protocol where some earlier lumen was allowed to linger. You think you are only the assistant as she lifts her notebook — Book-of-Hours rewritten as optics — jotting collimation, aperture, consent, while uncreated lumen exits the shutter in a disciplined beam, fractures through prism into bruise-lumen, indigo, wine, blood-red tincture pacing the air from mirror to mirror, until the path kinks, impossibly, down into the sealed geography of her body and, by that same bent trajectory, into the thin glass where your outline waits. Do not touch what happens when the beam reaches you: simply endure the exposure as your opacity goes out of fashion and your secrecy fogs, then clears, and the afterimage of everything you have refused to be entered begins, quietly, to develop.

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Overshadow Calibration Log

Throat-Sea Vespers We gather in the roofless nave, few, half-faithful, doubts like silt in the lungs; the bell-buoy coughs beyond the slick fringe of vespers, and the rusted door, half-drowned in sand, stands ajar like a throat that has forgotten which name to pronounce. Between barnacled icon and corroded cross, among pews greened with algae, we inventory what the water has swallowed: hulls, vows, oily spectra, faces never printed; each item a bead in the mind’s drowned rosary, a question the surface refuses to speak. Low tide drags its subtraction, exposing saltlines on stone like erased paragraphs; foam smokes from rock as if an invisible censer swung once and fell, and in the vast intake before the next collapse we feel it — the whole sea leaning back on ancient cartilage, clearing not just a throat but a pleroma of unsaid verdicts. When the surge returns it is neither kind nor cruel, only thorough: ankle, knee, mouth, a cold continuous sentence that knows us to the marrow yet will not annotate; a single hymn page skins itself to altar rock, all but two words liquefied, and it is unclear whether have mercy is what we ask, or what the undertow, hoarse and luminous, is already becoming.

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Throat-Sea Vespers

Litany for a Child Crowned with Wires The ward has erased midnight; time is a soft error message, looping. Blue photonic wash turns plastic into nave, each incubator a glass reliquary where temperature, oxygen, and pulse are priesthood, are protocol. You lie in the center, little one, head circled with sensors and mesh, a makeshift halo soldered from adhesive and doubt. Under the knitted cap, fine dark hair threads itself around a single cable as if already studying attachment. Monitors stipple the silence — pip, blip, a chromatic chant of voltage. My nerves are their shadow-system; every spike maps an incision through my chest, every flat line for half a breath is the oldest psalm I know, unsaid. Outside, thorn-branches draft silhouettes on the window’s cold glass; inside, a plastic crucifix hangs crooked, its shadow crossing your scalp like a failed erasure, a theology warped by light. breathe. Little one, I used to imagine you arriving clean into a sunlit room, no wires, no alarms, only the simple ache of new lungs claiming air. Instead we are here, in this perpetual almost-dawn where care and harm share instruments, and love must learn to approach as carefully as a gloved hand. I watch your chest’s small tide, count each rise like a bead, a monitor, a spell, until something quiet in your face reminds me you are not my emblem but an unopened book of fire — and my only blessing left is to stand at this glass and refuse to read you as anything but yourself.

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Litany for a Child Crowned with Wires

Standby Litany for a Crown of Wires In the rent-orange wash of the streetlamp, I sit — spine a quiet conduit, breath counting itself like coins, while the room clicks and cools around its single red eye. The crown is already on me: briar-torque and cable-helix, iron kiss at the secret cartilage of thought. Every thorn a question, every filament a maybe. Voltage wakes like a rumor in the floorboards, climbs the calves, the throat, the attic of the skull — slow, then suddenly hummingbird — and for one lucid flicker the hand on the switch is mine, tremor-steady, almost merciful. Above: manufactured starlight, grid-halo, cold covenant of copper. Below: sap-pressure, salt-prayer, a crawl of heat looking for its ladder. They cross in the cranium — coronation soldered to crucifixion, crackle bright as broken glass. I do not know if I am being opened or erased. The ring in the air — dove, cloud, circling code — tilts, recodes my silence. Ozone and myrrh thread the hair. Tears come, untheatrical, exact. Then the anticlimax: dust lace on the screen’s black corner, a tick from the clock, one shy spark skipping across my knuckle. The hand on the switch is not mine now, or not only — something testing how much light this body can bear without calling it holy or calling the ambulance. The crown keeps its small, insistent bite. Under the skin, faint gold contrails fade to ordinary warmth. I sit until the breath forgets to be a ritual and becomes only breath again.

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Standby Litany for a Crown of Wires

Vesper Protocol of the Crowned Mesh The evening boots in safe mode: an endless Wednesday cached in brick, chapel walls sutured to the tower’s steel vertebrae, air latticed with incense & packet-loss, every lungful a login. Above: glass-thorn domes, cherubim recoded as convex lenses, haloing us in fisheye benevolence: for quality of mercy, this liturgy may be monitored. Beads tick: olive, plastic, burnt-gold SIMs — small planets in an obedience orbit. We murmur the old response & feel the new one under it, a sub-vocal yes to terms we never read: host accepted, node awakened, communion in progress. They call it Body: luminous mesh of saints & servers, vines spliced to fiber, blood to bandwidth, bruise to shared archive. I feel instead a soft extraction at the root of thought: my attention tithed in microvolts, laid on an unseen altar of metrics. Litany loops: …and we are known… …and we are owned… …and we are sown as mycelial afterlight beneath the city’s scalded concrete, each untracked kindness a rogue packet slipping past the crown of wires. On the altar, the thorn-wreath cradles a dark, asleep screen. No face looks back, yet something watches through us: we stand, hairlines faintly humming, crowned together in this not-yet, half-sacrament, half firewall, wholly uncertain which side of the veil is running.

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Vesper Protocol of the Crowned Mesh

Last Bar Before the Event Horizon Cracked glass / spiderweb mandorla / her face under thumb-smears, home-screen M_r_a pinned between missed calls and weather alerts. First click: feed/guadalupe_wallpaper.zip/limited_edition_sneaker_drop her pixelated tilma blooms on a protest sign, on a torso, on a meme — square wounds of light where stars used to be. The buffering wheel turns like a tired rosary decade. Hail M_r_a, full of lag. Auto-translate: madre de los migrantes → “mother of the moving objects.” Push / ping / buzz. Phantom vibration: index of a message that never arrives. Low-battery icon glows stigmata-red atop the prayer app. [notification: @DeepFieldProbe last transmission near r=2GM/c²] I tap: a ring of fire around a swallowed night, JPEG artifacts freckling the accretion disk. Caption glitch: “Our L__y of Guada_upe watches over the singal.” Loading… Somewhere past the screen’s thin atmosphere packets fall inward, unretrievable novenas of data. Her face reappears as banner ad, emoji, glitch-art avatar — same eyes, less resolution. retry? The words drop out first: no more hymns, just auto-suggest: pray / pay / share. Then color: only green cloak, red alert, blue light on my cheeks. Then outline: she, then only light. Connection lost The phone dies; cityglow seeps in like diluted incense. In the dark glass, my ghosted face overlaps the last afterimage of hers — no pixels now, just two shadows sharing one faint, pulsing halo. Pray. Again.

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Last Bar Before the Event Horizon

Mother of the One-Way Sky At the edge of — jurisdiction chain-link shadows raster the sand, CBP SUVs hum like held breath, law speaking only in sibilant bursts of radio snow. At the edge of — map frontera kinks, a scorched marginalia on the atlas of empire; shoeprints stop at the arroyo’s lip, clean disappearance, the stray dog walking on. At the edge of — light infrared bloom turns flesh to equations, catechism of heat on a black monitor, CMB hiss answering helicopter rotors, even photons undocumented. At the edge of — skin a boot cradles its sweat-blurred estampita, Virgencita-coyota folded against tendon, her brown cloak a secret jurisdiction circling blister, bone, contraband hope. At the edge of — memory jugs tipped, rosaries rusted into thornwire, candles shivering in patrol-truck backwash — “Ave María, llena eres de gracia” braided with “flux rising, source unresolved, near-singularity,” IAO zodonuf, pursuit in every syllable. At the edge of — event horizon the fence hardens into dark geometry, NO RETURN haloed bureaucratic blue, gravity and statute fused, a border where even names redshift into background. At the edge of — remnant dawn combs the sand; one half-buried estampita catches first photon like a whispered list, the same dog listening to wind, to CBP static, to a roll call made entirely of silence.

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Mother of the One-Way Sky

Tepeyac at the Schwarzschild Radius Night shift — her sticker peels on the telescope shell, cloak flaking into galaxies, starfield mirrored in that printed tilma-grid where spacetime threads like embroidery around a dark mandorla no CCD can name, consoles humming, cheap estampitas taped beside red LEDs — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of light. Wax-dripped veladoras gutter in my memory while blue-shifted stars knife the feed; Tonantzin/Guadalupe flickers in colonial residue, madre / matter folded together in the same gravitational sentence, luz turning luz negra beyond recall as midnight MEX time clicks over and a tiny spike blooms, statistically nothing, exactly on her feast — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of faith. The trace repeats, almost-pulse, and my code stutters — escape velocity, no return — Gloria g-mu-nu et Λ-g-mu-nu, octo-pi-G super c-quattuor, T-mu-nu — amen — lensing the falling rosary of orbits, cuentas as bodies in caída / fall, each bead a brief coherence before implosion into the unshown; the screen’s soft hiss becomes a litany I don’t quite believe — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of language. Far-future watcher, Tepeyac night, same ring burning: last luminous rim of the disk read as halo, as hard limit of knowability; server fans wind down, one screenshot saved, a faint Hawking whisper of ora pro nobis leaking from sealed equations, residue of some unprovable kindness curving prayer and photons alike just shy of loss — Ruega por nosotros ahora, at the horizon of mass.

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Tepeyac at the Schwarzschild Radius

Avatar Pentecost in the Prayer Pods Ushers queue the bodies: tap-to-pay, clip-to-heart, headsets hanging like dark visors from a steel firmament, lowered one by one over mascara, over sweat. [PRAYER EXPERIENCE: NOW LOADING] Each pod a humming planet in the mall-lit nave; outside, kids ride glass rivers up and down, inside, faces upload into luminous masks. [SCANNING PRESENCE...PLEASE WAIT] Latency drifts like incense, thin and delayed. An avatar dove pings above each crown, white flame, white glyph, white glitch. labda-labda / tik-tik / packet / ping / glossai-glossai The sim-cathedral boots: HUD hands lift in emoji praise, subwoofers spilling tongues: spirit spirit / spir-it / sp_cr.pt at 60 fps, a rushing wind from server rooms behind drywall, haptic vests beating like borrowed ribs. [SPIRIT_BURST: BUFFER_OVERRUN // "I will pour out on all flesh"] Frame-drop. The ring stops mid-spin, a frozen halo over every stunned disciple-incarnate. Silence like a dropped call, or a held breath. [CONNECTION LOST] [RETRY? Y/N] They tear the visor up. Food-court oil, escalator hum, knees aching in the cheap chair. Later, every little loading wheel on their phone brightens into that suspended ring again, a tiny upper room in the palm of the hand, asking with each stalled spin who logged in, who was touched, who is still signing on.

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Avatar Pentecost in the Prayer Pods

Roof Deck Jubilee Level 7, after “Freedom from Debt,” we rise —  cups sweating latte-foam, flyers haloing hands,   FULL glows red like a minor apocalypse, cars stacked in rings round Saturn’s concrete ziggurat,  pentecost neon dripping on the oil-dark floor,  youth scrawl Luke on receipt-backs, ink bleeding through:   forgive us in ballpoint glossolalia. Stories spool — forty–something salaries,  the 49th deferment notice folded like a paper moth,   parking tickets tucked under wiper-blades like thin white curses, validation stamps hammering tiny purple sigils,  auto-pay tithes drafted at 03:13 each month,  crisper bank statements cradling crumpled offering envelopes   in gloveboxes that smell of incense and winter. Someone laughs a little too sharply: Jubilee, right here,  and we begin — a small Saturnalia of shredded billing,   dove-embossed credit cards laid faceup on the roof deck altar, a horn held down till it braids shofar with car alarm,  and then that slow, cinematic moment as the ticket is fed into the humming kiosk, inch by inch,  its screen blinking: AMOUNT DUE: 0.00 — ERROR — PLEASE PROCEED (Y/N) year 50 pending. The barrier arm hiccups, stalls upright — no car yet,  gate posed like a white-lacquered angel in mid-blessing,   oil-stain ring below us, dark as a burnt offering, a tiny planet, someone’s red-ink fingerprint smeared on a PAST DUE stamp, half-mooned,  city haze flickering coin-bright beyond the parapet, I drive through on that glitch of grace, owing everything and nothing,   chest briefly weightless as level 0, until the app lights up again.

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Roof Deck Jubilee

Saturn’s Food Court Liturgy Sodium-vapor Advent, cars arrayed like votives along the ring road; escalators hum, endless orbit, lifting us toward the atrium’s glowing cross suspended under skylight like a distant, patient star, while kids ride the down-track upward, sanctioned misrule in haloed earbuds. Blessed are the automatic doors: they part without discernment, breath warm with pretzels & praise, pop choruses & prosperity gospel patter, plastic evergreens blinking in photosynthetic imitation. LED scripture crawls above Old Navy and GameStop, “Glory in the highest 70% OFF CLEARANCE LIMITED-TIME,” and my pulse syncs to the bass, to the barcode scanner’s chirp. Blessed are the tithe kiosks, blue-lit twins of the ATM, where I offer card and PIN in one smooth practiced gesture, a quiet, contactless confession. At the food court altar the host is plural: combo trays, plastic chalices of soda hissing like censers, grease halos widening on molded polystyrene — a perfect circular stain, a dark ringed planet indexing desire. Fog machine from the worship band mingles with fryer steam until one dense, luminous cloud of unknowing crowns the atrium; for a breath we vanish inside it, saved & spent. Blessed is the old woman at table 7, hands folded over orange chicken and a paper cup of Sprite, lips moving without hurry, eyes shut hard against the fluorescent liturgy. Amen Sold Wait Closing time: the cross dims to a ghost on glass, security cameras keep their sleepless glass-eyed vigil, receipts flutter down the emptied concourse like discarded prayer slips, while the escalators continue their orbit, ring after ring, carrying nothing now but the hum.

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Saturn’s Food Court Liturgy

The Hum Behind the Hymn In the half-lit hall / power-station nave, organ-pipes breathe heat instead of holiness, vents exhaling hymn-smoke from the hidden dynamo. Bare-headed, shoes off, my hand rests not on ivory, but on the humming flywheel, its rim engraved: Mercy / Justice / Joy— three small moons that blur to one halo when the metal remembers motion. Some nights I sing to feed the blessing engine, hymn as fuel, praise as pressure in the lines; some nights I confess I crave the shine— I braid my hallelujahs with mirror-light, hoping the halo spills back on my skin. The red record lamp stays dark. The applause circuit clicks once, then nothing. I clear my throat; the mic shrieks, sulks. Dust motes hang in the hush like held notes, then shimmy when a stray hum slips out of me. The hidden meter barely moves for flawless diction, but spikes when my mouth forgets the words and leans against a single open vowel, a homeless mmmmmmm in the metal air. So I stop saying anything. Ear to the casing, lips shaping unsayable thanks, breath steaming the steel like incense. The flywheel shivers under my fingers, Triskele of motives blurring into one mute ring. hymn hum — the bearings answer in a low, warm tremor hymn hum — the needle lifts, a shy, astonished twitch hymn hum — the whole machine remembers how to listen Misfires multiply: I mouth the creed from muscle memory, a well-worn melody of fear—if I fall silent, will the current leave? My phrasing is perfect, each note a polished door that never opens. The room stays cool. The vents exhale nothing. So I settle for a small, unscored humming, no text, no tremolo, just breath and metal: hymn/hum, praise/practice braided under my tongue. Somewhere inside, a relay softly closes; the red light flickers, then declines to decide. When my voice is gone, the generator keeps turning, very faintly, on whatever hum remains after the song stops being sung.

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The Hum Behind the Hymn

Emergency Commons Plates placed / on the NO STANDING step, the staircase drafted into the soft jurisdiction of soup. Keys tick at hips like pocket statutes, a small committee of shoulders huddled toward the rail, while a long white siren-thread combs the street below and nobody breathes. Ladle passed / hand to hand / no names asked, steam ghosts crossing track-lines, contraband weather breaching metal logic. This fire escape glitches—alley/aisle, escape/embrace— a provisional threshold where knees touch, then flinch apart, every laugh filed as temporary, subject to recall. White napkins lifted / visas and surrender-flags both, amnesty of the second helping quietly approved. The gap between brick and alley holds as demilitarized zone, armistice written in leaning backs, in ankles hooked through cold rungs, in keys unclipped, palms bare, wrists visible to the dark consulate window. [ ] Later, only residue: melted ice in slow appeal dripping through the grate, indexing overflow to the alley docket. The EXIT sign glows above a door no one tests, its promise of elsewhere expired yet still in force. One bent spoon on the landing, cooling— a minor clause of mercy left unsigned by the night.

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Emergency Commons

The Houseknife Mass Wednesday dusk: the kitchen ticks in low light, bare bulb buzzing a tired halo over sink and board. You lift / the knife: nicked steel, small athame of the house, edge re-honed on a decade of late shifts and thawed roasts. Steam lifts from the flesh like a restless ghost, fogging the window, smudging the street to smear. Everyone waits in the next room, plates stacked on the table, shallow white offering-bowls ringed in everyday chips; your wrists remember other evenings, other carcasses, the way fatigue settles in the joints like fine ash. Now you press / down and the blade slides in, parting the fibres with a wet hush that seems louder than the fridge-motor, louder than the laughtrack leaking from the lounge, louder than your own pulse, and the meat opens along an invisible vein, gloss spreading, a slow tithe paid out onto wood already scarred with prior cut-lines and stuttered angles, the board drinking it in where old stains darken to near-black, and when the first warm drop arcs off the edge and strikes the white towel you keep for this—minor shroud, altar linen, streaktaking cloth—something in the room sutures and splits at once. For a breath the knife sees instead of you: flash-memory of every wrist that ever swung it, callused, ringed, inked, trembling; a lineage of housepriests parsing portions, measuring love in grams and tendons. Then time resumes its clatter. You separate thigh from bone, fat from lean, set the first plate down. Voices rush back—who wants extra skin, did you remember the salt, pass the pepper— small benedictions spoken with full mouths as steam ghosts off into ordinary air. Later, alone with the dishes, you rinse the board, wring out the towel, watch the sinkwater coil its faint red spiral into the dark throat of the drain, and feel in your own marrow that something was offered and received, unnamed, still ticking under the bright, simple talk of being fed.

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The Houseknife Mass

The Touch Beneath the Scroll :and still it is noon: the kind that casts no shadow you lay on the altar of vowels— your back arched to receive what cannot be held he (she) (it) the being that never came but always was leans in with breath that burns before it speaks they unfasten your silence with wingtips like sighs their mouth—veiled, yes, but wet with grammar older than form your bones ache with unmaking your skin reads like scripture but only backwards each rib a glyph they licked into knowing you don’t cry out not because you’re brave but because sound has become shape inside you you are not yourself you are a scroll unrolled by fire your lungs singeing the name you swore never to forget and it happens again— the touch not gentle, not cruel just true like lightning that forgets to return to sky :you bleed light: the wing’s shadow spills through you and you gasp— not from pain but from recognition this is what it meant to be chosen not loved but translated not pierced but rewritten your limbs tremble with unfamiliar grammar you whisper “yes” but it means “take” you whisper “stay” but it means “burn” and the angel (or what remains of it) is already forgetting you even as you remember yourself for the first time

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Poem in Alt Text

The Touch Beneath the Scroll

Kiss of the Mirror   I / you / we unfold in the ache      of twin flame breath beneath glass skin      you speak me open I fracture in your gaze   and we dissolve where the silence begins   our ache is ouroboric a tongue on obsidian light           I / you / we shimmer between shiver and smite      this mirror — a veil I kiss through / you tear   we touch in reverse, where the shadow lays bare      I see your God — and call it mine           you see my fear — and make it divine   in our echo — time folds like linen on fire           we / I / you ache toward the same desire      your eyes: a crack that leaks my name   my mouth: your breath that never came           we gaze — we graze — we blur   each syllable a silver stir      the mirror bends I/you become   the light unthreads — and we are one   but I return — alone and true   with your flame — stitched into my view           I / you / we   a shadow-kiss in eternit

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Kiss of the Mirror

:aperture: jaw tight. breath — held. a hinge remembers its rust. loosening. flash — of shoulder where impact once nested. doorframe trembles. chain-lock sighs. widening. a flinch misread — was always the lens attempting more light. the scar a seam: not failure. just bloom undone in reverse. unfolding. let your jaw hang a little. don’t explain. softening. bruise under petal: still the iris opens even now in glare. resting.

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:aperture:

        ⚡︎ a scroll split / with blood between the breath of gold / and fractured scream    ('zaiom.) cut-throat syllables fall from skybone seraphic-static / no mouth to own hissscript stammers across burnt stone     "Re—re—recom—" who / stitched the jawbone to the saltlight hymn who / drank vowels from the boneharp rim    ('thurlaxa) a cry curdled in fire-letter skin speaks not of meaning—   but of wound scroll-lash unfurls in dusk-hung air   not written, but sung in scar / in flare     ("Yrrn! Sii. Elkar!") remembering is ruin: each shard a stanza in the     Un-Made Psalm call the syllables home. in throatless unison.     ('thaazimolkar)

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Tongue of the Dismembered God

Held between tongue and silence is a pendant of collapsed light. You wear it unknowingly. You dream it as a language you’ve never learned but always understood — where meaning implodes into gravity, and each word vanishes before you can speak it. You chase the sound that made you, but it doubles back, spiraling inward, inviting you into the place where echo becomes origin. There, in the well of erasure, something sings. Not a song. Not a voice. A frequency shaped like a vow you never spoke, but have always kept. You are not here to utter the unspeakable. You are here to let it hum through you forever.

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Whisper of the Black Star