Unsonnet Ars Poetica Self-Portrait as the Narrator of an Unpublished Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi Novel

The atheist in me sings to the
anarchist in you: something,
something, something sweet
about this rodent existence,
about the blood on the fur of
one’s unknowing, about the joy
of daydreaming oneself into the
marginalia of an almost moldy
page in a book one owned and
lost somewhere along the way.

I am everything and nothing all
at once, a female Quixote
choired inside an Adam’s apple,
a Nietzschean epigram
engraved on an electron, the
sound of a lunatic dog barking
behind a closed door containing
the wine-dark cadences of
Sappho and Homer at sea on
the meters of the digital ether
inside either the cerebellum of a
Nobel laureate or the neural net
of an AI Li Bai.

I am the Niña, the Pinta, and
the Santa María of exilic
consciousness. I am the Apollo
11 of unrecorded histories. I
live most fully inside the
imagination of Pierre Menard.

I am quilled with doubt in the
moonlight of a Mediterranean I
invent in the eyelash of a
comma I blow from the
fingertip of my beloved, my
beloved who is always only ever
theYou reading Me ampersand
by adjective by noun by adverb
by verb by conjunction by
indefinite article by em dash—