MYTHMAKING

There are all sorts of myths that will keep you alive.

One of them involves names and the power they hold.

Another has to do with memory.      God too is a myth,

but she transcends as you pass through days relatively

unscathed.       Then there is calm.      And peace, and

love, and dreaming.          Comforts, some of them.

Others, hell.      It is known that in life one must find

distance, and hold it, and keep it.      No one is sure

what to call the relatively large amount of space

between the particles that comprise us.       People

still think god is a man.       I promise you with my

heart, things are stranger, more captivating and fucked

up than you realize.       This is what I tell myself

when sleep becomes a mystery and I forget the language

of breathing.     So often this happens, my daily

coming undone, my disbelief in selfhood, my regression

back to the wickedness of desiring truth—something

to signify the mixing paints of thought, feeling, body.

            I fear grey.      I fear white.      I fear fading

into the background of a world too sure of its purpose.