Sometimes I perceive these texts as a box, 12” x 4” x 4”
pages loose in a stack, a sacred Tibetan sadhana. Or
something edible: a meat loaf, a block of cheddar.


I was born to devour, to entertain disparate ideas all at once, run headlong into a mirror; flakes of quicksilver made
bird sounds that evoked the jungle while


I fell into a triptych, a hot house of false hopes.
I laid down my breath like a blanket for sensate life. Chaos floated to the surface. I feasted on solving its riddles.


I felt Art was one way to dispel my fears. I knew
The meaninglessness of North American Life related to
the meaninglessness of Third World Death.


I wondered when bombs would go off, if I’d be able to find my way home. In time. My cells slid through the membranes of my skin, formed a halo, a third body which did not protect me.


The nigredo seared me, watched me from underneath its furrowed brows. “Here’s a woman I can pour my darkness into: she has the teeth, she has the snarl.” But it was too late.


I don’t feel subversive. But, I am subversive. I’m happy
to be lit by votives from within, not staplegunned to heat death or trying to maintain order through fluctuation.


Dissipative structures leave me faint. My past roils with contradictions, the future arrived eons ago.
I know I must assuage The Spirits, plug into


The Big Switchboard, sleep deeply and turn the lights out. My ballast is topophillia, a force accessible only when viewing the moon shimmering. It makes music for trees to dance to.


I now yearn for no more conflicting desires, for involuntary spasms of my vertebrae to subside while I sit straight, sit still. For the spider to traverse the wall of this eternal Holy Now.



All work protected by copyright © 2017 by Brigid Meier