late night, basements, no sex

lately the real trouble has been
convincing the self that this place
is not an ossuary but rich topsoil
a rich deposit in which to grow.
my thumbs shake above
the mechanics
the physical representations
of the verbal representations
of the mental representations
of the things that we call "letters"
but that are really unuttered, unvoiced
understandings.

i study the reasons why this degree of abstraction
is beautiful and necessary. pragmatic and kind.
i write poems. i work.
i sit. i sit.

the three of us, with different motives
pouring ourselves into
what we believe is right.
this self believes in the incendiary whispers
of revolutionaries in basements
of the curdling sexual desire that grips the
unfettered human. this self believes in mutability
mutations, generations of change.

this self sits in basements
next to doors labeled "holography"
and is preserved, like ammonia-treated
beef.

they say i have an infinite self-life.