Hart Crane’s typewriter falls asleep with lambent pulses, tectonic waltzes, and a tendency to follow its instincts into intangible but slow-breathing dens of under-the-bed monsters who frequently consult the dictionary of grunts. Fragments that are not words, they are metaphorical sandbags in the tidepools of emptiness, where matter & anti-matter touch lips, anticipating each other’s breath, vowels and consonants in heat. Wild silence grows wilder in my closet. Turning it over in my mouth, I taste the afterbirth of death and the afterdeath of birth. Unfinished creatures that claw themselves out of the typewriter and demand love. Nothing says sublime evil like a rotting slice of poem, buried under countless teeth and tongues, assembled for the purpose of saying nothing, and with a soft clunk, nothing again. Until the poem closes its lips and dies.