Updated: May 27, 2021
ORACULARITY feat. Frankie Tanimal OFFICIAL POETIC MUSIC VIDEO PREMIERE!
I was born at the cusp of revolution. May Day Beltane blossoms of mounted chaos.
There is always arson rioting the night before I’m reborn every year.
I always smell the smoke the next day, fragrance like clashing fists and lost tongues.
When I say my birthday is an apocalypse, I mean it is another veil pierced to uncover sunken mirages.
Everything is usually closing or opening near my birthday. Rent, scholarships, documents, quarantine, rebellion, bloodshed, cyclones, earthquakes.
When I say my name is a song I do not mean it is always pleasant.
I mean its dissonance will reveal the places on my throat where I’ve choked myself most.
I pull an everything from my mouth and it collapses into a something. E.g. this poem. E.g. an emerald script. E.g. a pyramid. E.g. the United States. E.g. the White House. E.g. the historical repression of thousands of bodies from their sociocivil rights. E.g. an epitaph. E.g. a funeral speech for every nameless body unwritten by the Bibles of history. E.g. the preacher swallows a gospel and administers xenophobia, administers homophobia, administers fear of anything unlike the something they pulled out of the everything they don’t know about God.
I’m always busy on my birthday. When I’m not, the world wants me gazing into a mirror and not a birthday cake. The portals in my forehead resonate too intensely to ignore. For years I thought this a curse of unfulfilled festivities. I think of celebrating the day after. The week after. The month after. The year after. The lifetime after.
I’ve stopped grieving what should have been a living body.
The planets unalign around my singularity but constellate so anchored within my aquatrenches.
I think that is how dead things grieve themselves into living.
They take a lifetime and condense it into unfurled candles of warmthed hearths. [3:33am]
A mirror in my forehead tells me it is always my birthminute. Being alive is enough to celebrate unabashedly with fermented fruit and soft, iced bread.
God pulls everything out of a something and it becomes a preacher sitting in the White House. Preacher epitaphs his own grave until history swallows him unwhole. Thousands of bodies gain the right to preach, but still confined in the pyramid of rewritten Interdependent Declarations.
I’ve most choked on my throat in places my dissonance sounded pleasant.
It is still a song.
A mirage unpierces itself and the smell, of lost fists and clashed tongues, start believing its lies again.
There is always smoke the day before arson riots. There is always rebirth the day after my birthday.
I was born at the cusp of an everything. Thus, I will die as a rooted monolith of my every something.