time

the womb delivery, i remember. we said words like polyphone, rigmarole, kowtow and flatline. among other hisses, and the ethereal invaginations of a living object. we cut a strip of digestible atoms, inflatable balloons, lamp handles, and penny stands. in the side-by-side abstraction of a dead baby, cigarette stains, ashtrays and wind pipes. in the perceptive unfolding of adulthood, of the reconstruction of generosity, in the development of censorship, in the polity and inequity of an ideal government, in the morph of butterfly mysteries, of the blood botanists, the shell industrials, the piquant professional of hospitality, hospice and martyrdom. of desires that weave in steps, bone arrangements, ossified and cold, eccentric in the manifold of peer imagination, concentration, word babbling cosmologies. downing in the rain, a martini -pink and chic, with brown water motifs and spit pantaloons, whirring and stirring, and snaking in semi-humps of circularities and symmetry. to the boy birth, to the unpregnant biologist, did you feel the relief of emptiness? the relief of a silk ball tumbling down your vagina, ripping and tearing in shreds the venules, the arterioles, the capillary meshes of development, of embryology roiling and bubbling in the microcosm of your womb, in the monotone of the developer, cast in a shadow, hidden in time, burrowed in the relativistic misconventions. why should you be born at this moment? is it my time, at ten past noon? at five past six? at twelve past five? why then, which date? the additional -the time of birth on your emblazoned certificate...intriguing. at what time, in the mezzanine of the elusive arbitrariness, are you truly born in to this erotic world? i am obsessed, yes, with the grappling of your erotics. what determines, the time of birth? your conception, at fuck? the rapid slip of the umbilicus? why, what rationale? the time of death, peculiar concepts. at falsity, unanswered. to thank my breaths, biology, and race, a day forward. a year behind. a motion afloat.