COLD HEAVY DENSE
Now here at the lake edge I’m facing my frog
life Like feet attend to pawing shapes Out to the east
her stable container Again on the phone draws nearer
Go take barium Be a star collection You glow-in-the-dark
true polluter A propane streak in the otherwise Dismal grid has
Glands at the sides of her face to pump the aura No
go ahead I’m listening But I can feel it starting to dislodge
As I lean over the water It’s clear enough to enter So I do
Whatever’s coming out of me is wet
It churns with tall grasses but That’s showbiz baby so a cervical bruise Shutters his womb I take it to sleep. No other reason. How else to recognize the face you carried simultaneously as flesh or cognition fades to a laundry thrum Impacted points less tensile I met with the stairs on their cedar stringer so Whatever, above ground the fantasy tapers off Go home. You’re so humid. I meant to keep arriving. I stole this opening. I’d like to be with you the rest of our species all 10 years
Do things. In this order. Or imagine. A better order. The room. A wiped environ. Fizzling spot. Another time. My hair fell out. In happiness. At the back of the house. It was August. What follows. Is a treatise. On dance. Some way. To the end. It is easier to imagine. The end. Of the world. Than to imagine the end of. Nevermind. Tap tap. A petroleum mirror. Mere insect. That I. Am to be. Taking in the air. But this is a treatise. Will the light. Please soften. Again. There that’s better. We’ve all wanted. To submit. To something. So. Dance. Your muscle curls. The theater blears. With insurrection. Over one platform. Or another. Imagine. A better order. This radius. No place for those. Who breathe. Thru the skin. Oh wait. That’s. Me oh wait. That’s everyone. Oh skin. To the I. Pore border. That sensation. Echoes when the arm. Absconds its air. The room. Thrusts through. Its wrappings. Indelible. A thinking otherwise. A way to the end. A way to the pond. A way to the shore. A way to the bottom. A way to the depth. A way to the death. Oh wait. That’s. Me oh wait. That’s everyone. The nozzle. Drizzles. Mere insect. That I am. Is there a way. To clatter. All ruling classes. Sensation. Echoes when the arm. Razes its fetters. A sweep knocks all. Toy soliders off. The table. Of the world. Is wet. What follows. Is a growing. Water. Do things. In this order. It is easier. The doom. Thrusts though. That way. A way. To imagine. The end. How to begin. How to begin. And now I have.
MATTHIAS KODAT is a dancer and writer living in New York. He has performed with BALLEZ, Ginger Krebs, and Forced into Femininity; and published work in the Zahir Review and Ration Magazine.