Acre of silence. A hundred years of waiting—I wasn't
asleep the whole time.
Without the condom
feel an animal
go on need
I want you rude
into me unheld.
First person: art space. Evolution/destruction of art space. SABA, the
Southern, Space Space. PS 122.
I'm interested in keeping records: how people
behave, speak, think, live to make. What they wear. How they deal.
(More & more this was written in North Carolina not the far north)
If I work nearby what can I put my hand to. Tapping maple. I don't want
to do nothing, the usual work that can't be seen, make nothing for you.
nothing, charged with something
1"will shine out like shook foil"
a ghost charged with former life
. . . a something charged with
when my grandmother died
felt the shock of transfer. —unfinished. When
I finish it, will it be dead to me?
With a note signed Love you can do whatever you want
want to fuck me
maybe I haven't gotten the in-between music right.
Or am I remembering something else?
Does that happen to you?
I haven't been keeping track, am I pregnant?
I contain no one; my insides touch each other, all self all the way through.
Self, but bacteria. I feel a bit beat down this Sunday morning. Move me, make me
a wild ache of trillium in the woods.
I feel young, but I know better—
my ovaries not pink & smooth
like my other organs by now but
gray & scarred. Pocked
mesh of a fold of flesh,
beach on which a great stone, then a tree, then a body washes up.
Ever will build around—bit of grit, be a pearl.
He had a headache, then a tumor. It's pretty hard to understand,
but when you remove part of a person's brain,
dark blotty ashy. Put a point there. Dreams through which time has dripped, erosion,
text warped with honey, leaves stuck together,
a letter transferred.
"memorize a passage of erotic verse"
You are writing prose. Admit it. Where is your ecstatic word?
Like a glimpse of his glans.
I keep learning the thing I forgot
how can it be different always? The poem you can't write persists.
My debts mount, the city changes, my parents age.
In the water by the pier I saw & keep seeing
endless cities of blue sinking,
ultramarine slicked on aqua like weather on mountains which is how
you know all your metaphors are wrong.
Now, what can you make from nothing?