to do things like chop wood, light bonfires and make war when required. The way a boat can appear to be a bird in flight; anticipatory like standing in light rain while a god gives everything a new name. A man despondent on a beachhead becoming the idea of waves; the sound of riptides; how somewhere else, everything is hidden and folding—banal like asking the price of firewood or yelling “Last one out lock the damn door.” Sometimes I dream of hidden spaces like a vengeful god. A man despondent on a beachhead reaching for a mouth to say “home” as if the world could be organized by depth of devotion. Because gods fuck. That is what they do; they give birth to a world. Every way to whisper “home” is another fable; another means to bridge the distance between love and embrace. What is Odysseus holding? In his hands he clutches every possibility. Eat them. Consume desire like godliness.
What man? What god?
What it means to build a boat and sail toward my desires. Everything is an island—Calypso demanding to bathe in a distantly glimpsed truth.