Jack O'Neill exists:

under the ice, waveform of energy, potential and kinetic, kinesthetic, stimulated, simulated, here in this too-short too-lonesome white wave of potentialnothingness inside his mind, cold, suspended, animated, bare, bared, thought-forms unspooling untwisting unfolding here look wouldn't it be easy to just -- and

all the gnosis he never wanted is making itself at home inside the whorls and arches of his hallowed halls, come on in, the water's fine, fine and rare and rarified, finding forcing fucking its way through him, the him that is not him, the self that is not self, leaving him a vessel, a vassal, and on the way he's

reaching out in the darkness, in the cold, in the bare and sterile white walls of his confinement, and he can feel the next-step-go-now promise of the silver city pulling him coaxing him and he could lift up and drift up except he's made himself ice-mired, body-bound, tethered to the cold and the dark by the thoughtformconstruct he always lived inside, remembered shackles of hands eyes lips mouth belly cock legs (head shoulders knees and toes knees and toes) locking around the nothingness of no-mind, used to the poetry of his pulse fluttering in his ears whispering of every self-promise he's never left behind and all he has to do is spread his arms wide open and let a little light inside (let it shine let it shine light of mine) and

no no no he will not go he will not go, and there is something keeping him alive, allayed in this parody of life, his heart silent, his lungs still and cold, hands eyes lips mouth belly cock legs all rung 'round with ice and darkness but he will not go, he's been here before, walked this road and turned away before the lightning could strike him down and gone, because he knows that if he goes he will no longer be what he knows about being, and he will not let go, he will not release this burden of body and heart and will, and he will not

let go let go beating like a heart in his ears, he will wait here as a thought as a potential as a memory tucked up inside while they put his body in a glass coffin and someday my prince will come he whispers to his drowsing mind to reassure himself of all the lies he's always learned to live and

here we go again in the moment between one moment and the next moment with the tendrils and roots and runners taking shape inside the mind and the self that has never and always been entirely his own, his second time to be redefined, one for sorrow, two for joy, pick up pack up storm rolled in so quickly this time he only had time to gather the most precious things before the flood, après vous le deluge and you fuckers can't take it all, this is mine, mine, mine, and if this is mine then there must be a me to claim it, and where there is me there must be you, where there is self there must be other, and

(yes, Jack, yes)

other means other, pressed up against his boundaries, defining shaping joining daring challenging blessing yes, please, touch me shape me give me life, breathe for me, beat for me, you know the way back, you've done this before, and you have no name but there is no need, this touch is familiar, beloved, benevolent benediction bastardized by brain and body into bare bright welcome, c'mon in, the water's fine, baby, c'mon in, I want your hands your eyes your lips your mouth your belly your cock your legs through me with me and in me in the unity of our disjunction, our congruence, will you hold me will you take me with your

everything, fucking him, taking him, in him, hold me save me weight me down and lift me up and please, and somewhere he can tell he is reaching, clinging, holding on with both hands to the bright burning brand of potential identity, familiar, and the world is a series of infinite realities all branching off from every choice, and time is a river in which we sleep, flowing from source to outlet, and he is every possibility and every reality all at once, source to outlet, and he changes everything he touches and everything he touches changes, and

here in the moment of this indrawn breath he is every choice he ever made, every choice he ever made to keep from hating choices made, every lie he ever lived every possible plausible perpetual otherself and he can see the pasthistoryfact before him and the futurepotentialfact in front of him and he is cradled between, held in strong hands, lulled and soothed and open and wet and needy for the river which is time which is a capricious bitch waiting to steal them all away and

God, please, Jack, yes and all the other etymologies that build a lifetime, and he (please, yes, please) holds belly to belly and mouth to mouth and yes fuck me take me break me make me whole make me real make me yours like I've always been before and baby it's cold outside inside outside inside but you are my warmth my dream my rememberance my anchor my words and I will hold you and you will fuck me and I will say all the things I can never say in this heartbeat moment of dream and you will spread your skinsimile against my skinsimile and fuck me with your cock which is a metaphor which is time and gift and blessing and I will and I will and I will --

(Jack O'Neill exists, under the ice and dreaming, and when he wakes he shall have all the pretty little --)

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