There’s something seductive about a poem lending itself to the ineffable. Ineffable as in the fathomless and mysterious. Ineffable as in unfuckable. You could say the fathomless is unfuckable. Yet the cosmos is shapely and noir, so I succumb to temptation over and again. Black holes are the sexiest death traps ever conceived. All this action, including me and everything I’m saying takes place cinematically on a voided screen. The writhing squiggles and motes you see are self-produced, amateur graffiti printed in shadow, and reflect nothing of primary or significant consequence. Little-me dreaming little-dreams, little-me dreaming through the muddied core and quarry of words. Scarry, scarry stories buried beneath heart, in luminous splinters and silvery shards, where is the balm, where the fallout shelter, where the roots of hunger-cave in which we dwell like eyeless angelic moles —wanting, waiting, peaking, longing, shadowing, miming, blinking off and on, off and on, depleted fireflies hovering above dark bubbling bog. Mania as freebase and purge. As nostalgia and bane. What can we expect from words always reaching beyond themselves, beyond their capacity to grasp and maintain?