pioneertown.

A statistically sound and ever-accumulating study of formica ant heaps, conducted by the author and four scientists marching up Raxalpe in single file. Ridiculous green grasses:

The god of accumulation knows no distinction. The god of distinction knows no accumulation. The god of knowing knows nothing ongoing:

What amasses enough will heap (sand, frequency of words in a book, your brain’s known neuronal urges, grasses culled and carried away):

I’m armed with temperature gun and measuring tape. I can’t access exuberance. I relate, in my least fluent language, heartbreak to my old friend: my heart died. It all spoiled:

Melodrama, my sick muse, forced by inaptitude. My friend replies in a language I never learned, better than sinking into someone’s arms deceived by understanding:

We rotate heavy packs. Heavy instruments pull me back. Pull me forward when I shake a scientist’s hand. His shoulder stops my sentence:

Still strung to the verge I turn against the mountain and make demands. May this drain split my sense. May this rondure know our solar. Meanwhile I eat shit:

Seek heap slope. Crave heap location, inscribed. Desire heap size in our native numbers. And if fate were a legible heap I could trace, then? When my ex left, my teacher said: you have shit on your face:

Just wipe it off. Know distinction of no distinction. Know the slope of change. Between god, science, astrology, weather, I need system sense to inscribe good’s slide. If not why, then its grammar:

Or some maxim to fill the pit I dug with reddened heels. Clod by clod I heaved small certainties. Enough bits atop other bits will make something I can love or look past:

At the pinnacle we assign roles to measure, to photograph, to orient. I record. Blithe pestless sky drenched in wrung blue. Frenchman’s nose spreads its red. Day grates: we touch our own skins:

My friend the physicist knows all about nothing: all heaps. All heaps-in-process. Accreting, eroding. Heap logic will pull from us sloughs of organic color regardless of our plans or otherwise precise slicings:

Regardless of origin, dust will sunder the gear. The gear sputters in the living avalanche: ant by pile, pile by ant, while the doctorates measure this heap, that heap, speak:

Thick rivulets of ants throng along the law of fruit cut to eat. We are all confluencing toward our queens: the heap insists. When I tumbled from the verge I hung off metal hooks of attraction:

I clawed toward my love – I, warm heap in fractal of its source (Alps, god, humanific gaze) I voluntary sliced so I could heap so I could measure the size, not what made it so, slough off distinction:

The ants bite. Formic acid ablates off our skins; we watch the workers push the next grain toward tumble. The map is static. We traffic up motion:

Slopes trend toward unison: same slope of the child-heap I tumbled, free joy, sand-coated orifice. Sufficient smallness made conditions for softness:

My mother covered rupture with red ribbon. Expect avalanche, she never said. Over-order yourself against the world’s dis-or-order, she never said but maybe meant:

What pulled me up the pinnacle, a perfect love, or its imperfections? Did I waver or did I claim the unified slope I did not own?

The heap I thought I could keep, the first, pointed breast whether measured or gripped. Sweet single grain – the slip certain, this fall unplumbed.