"You’d break your heart to make it bigger, so why not crack your skull when the mind swells."

To have a thought, there must be an object—

the field is empty, sloshed with gold, a hayfield thick

with sunshine. There must be an object so land

a man there, solid on his feet, on solid ground, in

a field fully flooded, enough light to see him clearly,

the light on his skin and bouncing off his skin.

He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him,

vague and smeary in his ochers, in his umbers,

burning in the open field. Forget about his insides,

his plumbing and his furnaces, put a thing in his hand

and be done with it. No one wants to know what’s

in his head. It should be enough. To make something

beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

The smear of his head—I paint it out, I paint it in

again. I ask it what it wants. I want to be a cornerstone,

says the head. Let’s kill something. Land a man in a

landscape and he’ll try to conquer it. Make him

handsome and you’re a fascist, make him ugly and

you’re saying nothing new. The conqueror suits up

and takes the field, his horse already painted in

beneath him. What do you do with a man like that?

While you are deciding, more men ride in. The hand

sings weapon. The mind says tool. The body swerves

in the service of the mind, which is evidence of

the mind but not actual proof. More conquerors.

They swarm the field and their painted flags unfurl.

Crown yourself with leaves and stake your claim

before something smears up the paint. I turned away

from darkness to see daylight, to see what would

happen. What happened? What does a man want?

Power. The men spread, the thought extends. I paint

them out, I paint them in again. A blur of forces.

Why take more than we need? Because we can.

Deep footprint, it leaves a hole. You’d break your

heart to make it bigger, so why not crack your skull

when the mind swells. A thought bigger than your

own head. Try it. Seriously. Cover more ground.

I thought of myself as a city and I licked my lips.

I thought of myself as a nation and I wrung my hands,

I put a thing in your hand. Will you defend yourself?

From me, I mean. Let’s kill something. The mind

moves forward, the paint layers up: glop glop and

shellac. I shovel the color into our faces, I shovel our

faces into our faces. They look like me. I move them

around. I prefer to blame others, it’s easier. King me.