Trevor Ketner

A Hoard

The music progresses, repeats, listens, constructs.

Similarly, consciousness gathers the bowl on the table into the bowl on the table.

Even more tender in the summer heat.

The eulefrau sings to herself regarding the season.

Remembering the smell of her lover’s sweat and cum late into the evening.

She wanted to tell everyone about this.

But there is a recurrent discomfort at any use of words.

Thus she excised them.

The light across a color has a color.

And a triangle, one corner to another, is an ugly shape.

The way it holds its own pieces.

Despite this, she made her breasts her own—neither milk nor poison.

Tigers, donkeys, horses, elephants, deer, etc.

All this in the bardo of waiting.

Which is why I can’t understand how close they get to becoming the people they hate.

Every second could be instead preserved as a gold painting, a commentary, material.

Similarly, consciousness is also the world.

Or a consistent guide for it.

See also: The cultural survival of bread as cake, the sugar used to make it.

Or: How I loved the field in Minnesota where for once I knew how I felt.

The main settings for the scene: city, field, desert.

And still, we are rarely as reputable as we are interesting.

And my pettiness does remain: my repeated use of the word “amethyst.”

Truly tasteless.

Imagine a whale’s relationship to time.

This was part of her daily life.

That and the impossibility of listening to time.

After all, she was newly gone from the city.

And it was all so yellow-green.

All so expected.

Which is part of why I have begun to reject the cultural tendency to identify, to fix, to turn oneself into a

product.

One vibrates with the pain of it.

Just as eating too quickly causes one to hiccup.

And, of course, there is the complexity of the tube that is the human body.

The idea of admiration—or at least admiration because of how it was made.

And the fullness of the other side.