the fissures in four forms

there’s an epicenter I’ve located; that could rupture the earth
and in it, I plant seeds of hemlock
                             thinking something poisonous should be able to
                             neutralize this worrisome disturbance
beneath the rugged surface

the earth outlives species after species, fossil records show
                          yet the face of mountains; they crumble
              and volcanoes that burnt an eon before
                    are extinct now

                                              so if the earth twists open
or the rivers beneath form into a sinkhole
                                              does the life that seems beating
and infinite
become fleeting – is it

parasitic.

there’s an epicenter I’ve a located; it’s in the center of my chest
and in it, I planted seeds of hemlock
                                        the poison a part of the mineral veins
                           returning deoxygenated blood into my lungs
                           letting my fibers feel the kiss of a black hole

the cyclone of my conscious personality
is the third eye
                           not cliché enough
to be blind – just angstroms away from the
detached retina at the back of each ocular orifice

                                 when you’ve stared into the sight of a gun
or the rising sun, outside the protection of an atmospheric shield
                                          the explosion renders the flesh useless
                         like the decay consciousness
all self-repair mechanisms are impaired

                                            the rapture is a passage in the bible
                                                  akin to the ticking of a clock
                   and whether you’re starving in the streets
                   or in the spaces between my lungs and my spleen

                   the syllables of prediction, are an encrypted answering machine
the message is always the same – thing lasts, nothing stays

so I figure when I turn the leaflet of my owner’s manual
there’s an epicenter I’ll locate, and it’ll be in the center of my skull
not a single pain killer can take away my
                                             guilt-ridden shoulders
like Atlas before me, the sky made of generations to come

the hemlock I sewed into the soil
or stitched into my chest, a tattoo for my unrest
                      with its cubic, hollow stem
has become the toxic arteries of my necrotic hands
the burns I’ve suffered, from cupping the sun close
                                 recall that eclipse from last year
those were my palms, not the foreshadowing of clouds.

there’s an epicenter
               down the line of my back
composed of vertebrae, making me Jacob’s Ladder
                   of neuronal impulses, commanding the flesh
                      series of backhanded whiplash attempts
I’ve made to correct my physical aspect, for spiritual deficiencies
the connections between epicenters in the earth
and those in my skull, and tearing into my heart

it all radiates the speed of electrical signals
between heaven and the thrust
                                   of my lingering lust
angels make the memory of sex
                         something more than adolescent pheromones

this epicenter; we’ll call it "life"
and realize that, each quake is the passing of change
offsetting entropic decay

each tremor I feel, is my body retaining another breath
each pulse in my veins, is one more second I can sing
                    the stars from the sky, to meteor showers
at night

–Ara Raven ~ Copyright 2007–