Heat Wake
By Jason Zuzga
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Heat Wake - Jason Zuzga
Delete This Word
Elegy
All rocks are queer. By this I mean
I’m gay. I mean rocks don’t reproduce.
They have no future. It’s only now.
What I mean is like coal
like uranium like a meteor—
These rocks move from here
to there. With our hand-minds
or a slope. Wind pushes water,
jackhammers make a scenic drive.
Potential energy sneaks up on
this rock and gets kinetic.
The rock rolls down the hill.
The rock stops. It rests
facing this way for the next
forty-three years.
Rocks don’t float. Rocks don’t sing.
Rocks don’t dance. But I love you.
Something happens somewhere
and gravity is turned off. All rocks
float up or not. They tap together.
There is a sound like happy rain.
The rocks fly around. Then gravity’s back.
This rock could crush your skull.
This rock could weigh your papers
down in the crazy wind.
This rock is a rock. Inside of
this rock is more rock. For rocks,
it’s still night. No light. Even at noon.
All rocks are not hungry. All rocks are
sighing off electrons. All rocks are waiting
for the end of this world, which,
because rocks have no sense of time,
is happening now. There is no wait.
It’s over before it begins and
the rock is shining in the heat
of the expanding sun.
All sand is rocks. This rock
if struck with time + lichen + water
would collapse into so much sand.
Potassium. Vanadium. Boron.
The petrified forest,
tree chunks like lost teeth.
The rocks are not tunneling around.
The rocks are not anxious ever after.
The rocks are not tawdry, jealous, or rude.
The rocks are ignoring their edges.
The rocks are full of vibrational music.
The rocks move in your mouth.
You say Antlers. Alcatraz. Abyssynia.
With rocks in your mouth, Atlas.
Argon. Aluminum. Alabaster.
Say these words with rocks in your mouth:
Arginine. Able. Africa. Assortment.
Aspire. Aorta. Australia.
I love you. I do. I love you.
Connected
A long sugar stick—translucence
and transparence—twirled
molecular ribbon—held dark inside
this mouth against this tongue.
Scissor this word from printed fiber.
Let this persuasive stain dissolve
under tongue like a pink snowball
held by mammal hand inside
an aluminum house or
standing in this sunlit creek.
Burn this on a pyre of
scrapped macaques,
research-jangled and car-blown.
Delete this
with a clap
from air, from the file of words;
scratch this from the sand
with pointed stick.
This through-line will connect
you—to me, whether you be of tar,
of electric, of pheromone
spat through tube.
Ear
You agree to clean my ear.
Pour hydrogen peroxide into a froth
of static, my head, side down, on the sink.
With a washcloth you swab a drop before
it reaches my mouth.
One touch hurricanes you open.
Inside I’m mouthing