I will be the last one to write this book

first and bravest willing or the
only one with pinkish liver intact,
lungs whole and breathing on beat,
heart and intestines aligned, stomach
prepped and iron -- house of a dozen
or so yards and pounds of sleeping,
messy wishes. A pile of emotive meat.

Words collect sounds to create meaning,
yet “dog” is not a dog, so what is a word?
Echoes shatter common sounds like
rain on glass and buckling tin rooftop
of a matchbox butcher block of car,
echoes like static laughter, wailing
and slamming its way around.

Rain juices over thickly burdened wipers.
I am near the temple of Isis now: I am
all that is, was, or shall be; no mortal
man may lift this veil from my face. I
am just looking for my mother; I am
yanking the words out of “inevitable”
and trying to see the road. She waits.

Raindrops are words, compound, like fractures,
and they snake up and down windows
leaving entrails of themselves in wake -- words
are fickle, their meaning duplicates. I find
myself in words like "past," "viewing," and "gone."

I delve into the meatlocker. I find nothing
of any consequence, only things of
dire importance; I pull out words like
“inevitable” by the strings and try
to snip off their placenta and stare
at the wipers snicking the rain

Out of plain view I will weep if only to match
the sneaking quality of raindrops they
are only words the glass will break under
their weight and then it will be resolved
no one will be able to tell water from glass
her body from ashes and I can weep, then,
I can weep.

I drive into the city in search of Being
and Time, finding instead Being and
Nothingness. The temple was deserted;
“inevitable” transmorphs into Time and
Nothingness and Time. Being is a word. Being
is Nothing. I weep. The cop walks over. I
throw him the keys. It was
the opening scene to an adventure.