Interdigital Space

by Michael Borth

Everyone is crazy. I am too.

A bloody mattress into the Seine

Is Mom giving a peace v at church.

When no one looked fake so everyone

Was real they walked into a forgotten

Austrian cavalry barracks to read a 

Secret message by the light of the spirit

lamp. To read marginalia of the crossbeam.

To eat sanguches de mia of the second shift.

Intercalated leaves of dread fall on the day potentia

Became another brouhaha. Another approximate

Report of feelings. A mirageous fetal mouth in

Waylaid ultrasounds. Synaptic pruning for the child

Born among the cabbage. The tailing spilled into the

Demotic cistern. Echo upon echo. Over the stones

And along the wires people move away from us

With simple declaratives of cruelty to make that

One time you braced yourself a continued bell. 

A tinnitus of the steepled forest. Through contagious 

Oak and mysterious pains of the interdigital space.

You worry about the house with all the medication. 

Or all the ugly things I said all summer. I remember 

Them well and you cannot recall what you said. To

Make everyone so vanished. To make the man beyond

The wall clamor with greater frequency. In a demon

Presage with oblong red eyes I enumerate various 

Adult failings. To watch her play in the sheets. To bite

My lip. To admire her face angled like a five o’clock

Sphinx. But I’m a grumpy old man. I vent as the outsider.

I take quizzes to prove my deficiency. I too have forgotten

What I said through the text. Into the brahminic pamphlets

Of memory and censorship. Who stands in the center of

Precise recording. Ideal language. A whole object at once. 


Michael Borth is the author of As I Roam The Life Cycle and The World Dreamer

Image credit: Hilma af Klint (Swedish, 1862-1944) Group IX-SUW, The Swan, No. 9 (1915) Artvee.com