I am from broken images from my mind.

I am from wheat strips
Of bread, 
and porch lights
with fog on week mornings;
I am from the mind world
That restores dust at every 
Naked warm eye 
That blood rose
On paper-cuts; I am from banana seeds,
And reddened arches,
Distorted music,
Collected into one
Starvation of abstract
Speech—I am from the pressing of wind,
Blowing onto all kinds of rocks,
The beaten winter, the chaos of sickness…
I am from a singular song
With a singular sound,
I am from calloused finger-tips
Caverned with white,
I am from half-mind
Or delusion… I am from stardust,
And shades and pokes of underlying tiredness
On any distant day, the breath of deepest chill…
I am from a prayer at night I say to my God,
I am from memory in which I grew from first 
Muscle—to bone—to flesh,
I am from the canal in which I’ve risen
From dark-blue infinity,
Seeking only the first in which I could recall…
I am from life, I am from the harshest blow
Of sickles within the wind from the sap of the harrowed tree,
I am from broken images
From my mind
Scattered as the redemption of Earth
That goes round and round,
I am from the sea
In which I wouldn’t swim like mad,
From what brought me into a valley of sky
As edges of water splashed onto my hands;
I am from the spring in which I grew
And from the element of return
To a multi-imagination, a poverty
Of single, ghost ridden thoughts
When I am always thinking of something else
When I should be thinking of something else
Other than that. I am from the buried sun
That would dissolve of my slumber,
And I am from the speech 
That would purse at my lips
As fucked up prose, acutest
In the borders of thought—delirium—thought
In one line—one conceptualized thought
That might be too weird; I am from the origin of dead rocks,
And sleepy-covered trees like ice in the air
Into the starlit shadows that crafted my hands, my bones, my skull,
And into the layered desert of frost
When I myself get too cold.

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