Alex Cruse grew up in Whittier, California. While studying at UC Berkeley, she worked as Senior Editor of the Undergraduate English Association's literary journal, The Folio. Her writing has appeared in such places as 3AM Magazine, Maximumrockandroll, and the Los Angeles Times. She has self-published several chap-books of poetry, art work, and experimental prose: BLIND AND FINITE, Pro Geras, and Untitled, or, WHEN SOMEONE BEATS YOU WITH A FLASHLIGHT YOU MAKE LIGHT SHINE IN ALL DIRECTIONS.
speaking of “new haircuts,” “diets,” “weather”…
--weather, held within a broadening sky, which encloses our every pattern, the myths
hinged upon constellations. They infiltrate our fixed dialogic Systems, and we move with
and yes, the Ancients are in dialogue with our understandings:
of one another; our inadequacies; our weapons; our own bodies.
We should never speak of the Gukurahundi, of politicide, of genocide
of Levittowns and commodity fetishism
of graffiti on mosques and broken
Temple windows of
limbs of Tantalum
wars in the Congo—
we are manacled forever to the most mundane tragedies
of our own psyches.
Speak of fashion and I will kill you:
we cannot unpack the artifice that originates inside us.
Speak only of science, and find sanctuary in law built biological—the last
predictable pattern on an insane and senseless earth.
Love is a minor calculus, shifting within the rubric of the seasons.
We are dumb and childlike in our bankruptcy,
Our axis has run out of stamina.
This is where structure ends.
For infidels in need of a tool kit, I have included
the pentagram (5 elements);
a sack of our state’s rock:
Serpentinite [Mg3 Si2 O5 (OH)4 // quintile Oxygen]
for use within
the Pentagon: its foundation, too, a sheared matrix.
Cracks in it should be filled with the contents of vials
which line war-rooms:
the sweat of informants and journalists,
pheromones to which
only Bravery responds.
In deep fugue weather, Atrocity holds congress in empty zones,
where eyes speak their wild approach.
Their questioning will, ideally, extend past your sentence.
Sp1e2a5k the2 typ1ologie2s of e2t4he2r a5n3d p1la5stic:
prismatic air-signs, a fire that exists slowly, an endothermic Invisible.
fabric of media noise.
Confuse the meter in their lines of fear tattoos.
Shred and transpose code-logics, and stagger
out of the interrogation space
pre-language, the first of your DNA’s many atavisms.
Your extradition will be mandated when you are more problem than limb.
“Illuminati Symbol As Passport Stamp.”
You are reminded that the only thing
more composed than power
All anti | humans unite.
Sidewalk debris is, at times, mistaken for a dead animal, but never the other way around.
i, The inconceivability of a mysophobe’s happiness, so filthy is love.
ii, the quiet degeneration of photographic hue, at war with sunlight,
mutes the contrast of ruins unexplainable, deep spokes of shadow carved
into the frame, a darkness incidental to mass; a photo, evidence of love
empirical. Prove my sight. Validate.
iii, Weaving of noise, together, assimilated yet oscillating,
waxing the faux wooden veneers, the anachronisms and Scottish
sentiment; streaking down the glass: profanity, epiphany,
conjecture, laugh; the carbon exhaust, half-life of humor,
the slow activation of internal acids, throats
lacquered with microtonal organic procedures, dirgeful
song of the arabesque inside you.
iv, All my masks, mannequin heads, fake hands, wigs:
obsessed with plastics, a perverse refuge from mymisanthropy:
mimesis of the body itself.
I have taken
it upon myself
to re-christen Sunday as:
an inherited epiphany,
a Pyrrhic victory,
back from a self
where the black-blue psyche of my Animus
and steps forth.
only in man’s
discriminations of the finite.
Your judgments cannot be written;
all the alphabets locked in my teeth.
Your eyes are like pools of hot wax collecting on the tops
of 2 white candles.
Another shrine I can’t believe.
My mind translates this into “21.52782 lux.”
It’s all pretty easy to understand.
Until your autobiography screams, anthologize every cough.