I look to break terms
in half
grind them at thumb-
through them for pulp,
peel core away
excavate pit
stop gap between language
wide enough
to defibrillate dictionary
invigorate the dust
on a dead diction
until the particles plead
for a cadent ear
a falling doorway
sifted through slumber,
levitate a downbeat
until the pulse quakes
the blooming suffering
into an ardent, triumphant metric:
music my memory into everything
that is meticulous &
magnificent & marvelously meted out
about mayhem.
I look for fruit
amongst dead languages,
for cracks in cemented doorways
Terrance Brown
23 by way of St. Louis Missouri,
previously published in Bellerive’s Sonder, wusgoodblack, issue 3 of Bad Jacket, & the site Brooklyn Buttah.
A pacifist deciphering the mathematics of a war time society.
Bred from scribbles on the tabletops in your local schoolery.