Numerical Spirituality

Words decompose against the calcium femurs of their tones, when you bury them in a churchyard of chemical fear.

When numbers are what become of them, swept by altar worship, candles molded out of dairy, pulled out of cottage cheese, milk bread to go with

Rabbit holes are their subway tunnels, “threes,” “sixes,” “ones,” “fours,” in Ginsberg’s box carts, rattling, wobbly swept and slapped in a whiplash of headlight lightning.

Morse code, baby drooling language — antennas to the bleach smelling trepidation above, numbers dyed in colors and plastic xylophone keys and piano chords, gravity their quantitative echo, anatomy when you realize its as gaseous stuffed as cotton candy clouds, marshmallow bouncy, when you see people, faces, animals, materialistic Electra complexes of your stuffed bunny world you cuddled in your substantial fertile crib.

Who are you ants to be treading over a sugar cube of my questions like it were a jungle gym? Who is your humdrum anatomical movement answerable to?

A million, a hundred thousand, what you all lead to, which you do you automate, like an automobile that I can’t lift up the hood of or see where the ignition chafes against a metal tube of monoxide.

But for now, I’ll look to “three,” as Barbie, “four,” as Donald Duck, “seven,” as buff, warm and yellow as a man, “zeroes,” as Daisy Duck, “one,” androgynous, “six,” an ugly, gaudy stepsister to three, cause really, I’m terrified of the ambiguity who’d birthed me and will play in my crib with numbers to never meet her eye.