I don’t want an opinion,
I want to be reckless.
To crack The Word’s carapace open
and tongue the salt off its flesh,
taste an ocean’s evolution of sound, find
in the undertow: pull of earth
falling into earth. I don’t want 
to be remembered, reassembled, resembled.
I want to frack, to fracture
the machine seismic, thumb
the thrum at the heart
of stolen art, to place the pulse
underneath fault lines of circuitry. I want
to see the forest for its trees
and not its fellings, and feel what it means
to bleed the electric.
I wish to commune and not simply 
communicate, correlate, and corroborate
with the endings of our history books,
versify and not verify
melodious melancholy. Ill as I am,
all in my pen, I wield
the systoles and diastoles of reinvention,
and I count beats in the footfalls
of island syllables. Weave me, ancestor. 
Breathe me, new brethren. Thread me
through oxygen of your sentences,
and waken me with quakes of your undiscovered
language. Quick, do you hear it?
The tremor trembling, the veins vibrating,
the seams separating, if only briefly
for this moment:
where you’ll press your ear
against chest of my page
and hear here—