A Breath's Life

what do I do with this
Do I crawl inside it
Do I eat it
Do I shove it through my skin and between my bones
Do I carve your face in it
Do I hang it on the wall
Do I write your name all around it
Do I place it on the ground
and tell all the Others you are
beneath it
lie
ing
Do I insert it in a barrel
and point it

The power of my mind awoke
to the moment of love revoked
and the giving of the thing
I
was to become

The power of my mind awoke
at the moment of love revoked
and the giving of the thing I
was to become

Do I insert it
In a barrel
And point

I signed my name for the first time at that moment of love’s revocation
And the power of my mind became the borderline between you & me
And the power of my mind became the wall, over which I remember what used to be
And on this side of it I hang the pictures on it, the things got in trade
Who sells has the power
Who buys has it too
The thing itself is meditating, transported between powers desires hungers, aglow with the revocated love

The power of my mind became love’s disappearance
The power of my mind chased love over the wall
The power of my mind set me in a room all solo
A curtain was drawn across the doorway, a curtain of biology
A curtain of microbes and the stomach

A Merry Go Round

Everytime it comes around I reach out and make a mark
That’s how, being spun around on the wheel’s edge, the paper comes into view, I reach through my narrow porthole try to get as much down as possible as it rips past
The vehicle doesn’t relent
Throwing me past the still seat of work and thought
The vehicle does not pause
Shooting me past where I imagine I want to be
I’m ammunition from someone else’s weapon
A handsized grenade of skin & hair casting a mansized shadow
I land at their feet, that small group, between their nice shoes, and go off, an atomic invagination, what’s called intimacy
I’m arrived late in the middle of their show
I’m a walkon and take over the role of the one that couldn’t stay, or just left, or never showed
And over her shoulder, or his, I watch outside the window that place spin past
I wish, without movement, I reach past her shoulder, or his, and extend my arm, and make a mark as the paper rips past
And then I may say
Do you hear the wind?

Da Bomb, w/glucose

It’s a deadliness, a tiredness, a iya-iyaness, an unwillingness, a frightenedness, a pat refusal, an homage to an officer, a strangling of the born new, a sacrifice to the idol of silence, a resistance-fighting in a long over war (the soldier found in the bush twenty years later, not knowing the enemy is the trading partner now, is the best friend and media model of the sons and daughters of the men he saw fall and dead), a suicide of mind, a murder of no-action, a taking away via the empty seat, an eating to pack the wound, a violence to disintegrate the dream, a sorrow-song to sing when life has changed to nothing again, a great swallow from the nut of loss, a deep drink, a face buried in cake, chewing and crying teeth, a man on stage masturbating and weeping, a flatus-womb swelling, a repetitive matricide, a violence staged against the kitchen walls, a twine-enacted imprisonment upon the wedded bed, a violence that loves its own hot heart, a retribution called adoration, a vengeance worldground-solid called devotion, a pulverizing of the chestbones by a certain kind of sunlight after a particular hour of midnight, and from the laceration at the heart a memory of need and a return of care, and a great flash illuminates the dark livingroom, then a deadliness again, a tiredness, a stinkfoot stinkass motionless library of the memory of fuckmotion and the speed of a nighttime, a glance at the wastemeat, a peek at the old dome, a finding of greymatter predominately onesided, a mirror made of skin that grows old and falls, a silence that paves the past with gold, a tit that told the time, a female moustache bleached by the sun, sweatstiffened sheets in a time of cold and snow, a house that is just a stone, a walkway that blinders and so makes safe, a lock just for show, a mailbox with a fractional address, a busy street tied to the back like a fake hump, a hometown, a making of tracks to ruse, a making of calls to conceal, a crying to buy time, a miscalculation, a ending up, a moment that snuck through unseen, a bureau with a shattered mirror hidden behind a house, snow on it, inside the drawers dry.
A snowcave in the tropics or a masquerade. “I didn’t know how important your masquerade was to you. You may have your masquerade. Just don’t break any laws.” If you don’t follow any laws, you can’t break any.
A boot of leather on the leg of a cow or goat. Four boots.
A premonition. In the form of thinking there are none.
Let me get a footstool. “M’barrel chest ’ll do.” I want to help YOU reach the top kitchen shelf. Let me help. Maybe some TING will fall down and I could have a piece, just as a mild payment, not too much, but some TING for my small trouble. Put your good high heels on, and step so right chere.
You good in heels, even if you are a man.
And then you put me in your mouth. Even if you are a woman.
And then watch the big bug fly outside the window, making the muzzing moo and the motor nick the glass.
And so what the sun gone down again. We make fire just by rubbing our two eyes together. Give a lick. Press me down.
Who is that that calls here all the time? You know him?
We met once. You’re jealous.
I can’t believe it myself. Because he took the road I was ridden off. And he stayed on, because he never had the hand forced down on him. And I am I am I’m jealous and I don’t like it but I am and it makes me look bad I know and I can’t help it. I see the open road I was ridden off in him. And the man makes me regret. And it hurts.
But I love you. And I’m sorry you suffer this.
Sorry how?
Sometime I could go down that road with you again, go down that road with you again and break the hand that comes down. I could break that hand that comes down and chuck it down the bank. And then, you’d go on, right down that road, and I’d never meet you. We’d never meet. And then you’d be him. Calling me. And I’d not be interested, because you’d be here, and I’d be in love with you. Sorry like that. That in there like a wish for that.
I feel my knees buckle when I see you shaved. I can feel that skin ride me up and down and I see it and it troubles my heart. A man’s on a rope bridge the length of his cock. How could he ever cross it? It’s like walking with your hands under your feet.
Winding copper wire around the legs of the table, feathers and reeds stuck in the wire, making a fourlegged dynamo to counter the suction of the window. I can breathe in there. The baby bottles filled with shit and dirt and coins and dust and sand and food and paper etc, and a condom rolled on each one all the way down from the nipple to the base, and all on a shelf on the wall. That’s in there too. And the blindfold tacked above a strike zone drawn in chalk on the wall, with a set of fake breasts in the zone. That’s in there too. And the handcuffs mounted to the typewriter. And a drain filled with hair. And a window crystal clear clean. And a pair of dirty socks. And the steering wheel and driver’s seat with the dildo mounted on it. And the sound of wind in trees. The smell of eastern mountain air, and beach air, and basement air, and morgue air.
A crowbar with two eyes stuck in a doorway, having got it open just a crack.
“That’s this. What this is.”

You Turn

This is my place in the world now. Where your face is not. This is my place now.
I’ve elbow room in your absence, I can move and spar, I can swing my arms so they feel wind, I can see across this space you’ve hollowed, a valley between what was and what is not.
Hock up my voice and let it splatter.

Loosely, variously bright and woven thick, a walkin meatlocker is the night. As if on skates variously frozen and fleet I make it past what passes for time.

Around your absence I am doubled, helixed, always up before it’s light.
I breathe in the memory of your face.
Wrapped in its missing, I’ve made land.

Visa V

I want you to tell me when it will rain.
Maybe you could break something.
You know, when it’s quiet like that. That’s when I think they could actually do it.
I’d make a move when they were looking straight at me, since they’re so used to everyone waiting ’til their backs are turned. And then it would take them a second longer to react, and then the gate would open that extra inch, and I’d see the face a second longer, and they’d never be able to cut that out of my brain. Or if they did, since they could, they’d never be able at least to cut it out of my bones. ’cause I’d fertilize the ground they kill me in with it. Or the smoke they make me would spread it into space.
You make the same mistake they do. Matter. It’s not matter.
But I am, and I need get to what’s not through it.
Then you are them, and you’ve got no conflict.
That is the conflict.

I’d want to put me in the ground too.

But instead, bring on the songs, so I can stand and watch the many faces songs, so I can watch and hear the singing they make, here from the outside, where I thrive.
I feel my bones.
It wasn’t I who created this thing I’m in, what you call my face, what you call my ass. It wasn’t I, and so it’s not me, but belongs to whatever created it.
I know you love to look at it, but remember it is not me.
I’m the result of your looking, which is the result of what you see, which is made by another looking entirely, which is absolutely different than me.
And you, seeing your own looking – I want you to drop that, continually, drop that and drop that and drop that, until there’s nothing left of what you are seeing except what you are not seeing: and then you’ll start to glimpse what I know as ‘me’, glimpse without light or space, without rod or cone, glimpse in a heartbeat buried in blood – the violence inside peace of really knowing. An other.
I can already see it in your eyes, how you are tracing my contours to the topography of your insides. The portrait will be monstrous and shortloved. I’m telling you to wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. And wait some more. Before you think you see ‘me’.
Which does not mean I do not want you to gaze on me. I want I want I want. I want your gaze upon me. That is the rain upon me, feeding me. Without that gaze – your gaze – I die. But I want your gaze to never meet itself, and never to know. Only gaze.

3 Months Pass

Song

Sing me awake, be my dawn
Sing me to sleep, carry me home
Sing me and make me never come to
Be the man I thought I knew

And the last time
Made the first time
The last time

Sing me a knife, you use it
Sing me a sign, confuse it
Sing me a cup, a blanket, a pill
Ask the man if he won’t, if he
will

And the last time
Made the first time
The last time

I’d put my money on
Some one else
But I’d ride your horse in the rain
There’s mud in my teeth
A hole in your sheet
But look
There’s the hill
There’s the hill

And the last time
Made the first time
The last time

V south

I have no core
No center
No fidelity
No inside
No am
Touched by the wind I go; touched
by the rain I stop. Her want,
his vision, send me, sculpt me,
imprint me; her vision, his want –
schedule me, clothe me, violate &
sate me.
Touched by the wind I go.
Touched by the rain I stop.
Untouched, I don’t even know I’m
alive.
Deeds are reactions to invasions &
seductions; to reflections of
incapacity, erased by movement &
an armor of words.
Desire in a coin locker in a
station in dream. Left there,
unclaimed, in pitch. My desire.
Untranslatable, ungrammatical, felt as
a gulf, an entrapped depth,
crystal ball-like, in the infalling
length that goes down, on an
angle, through me.

Breaking Seed

“Our job is to move against the world, rasping against it, as if we were a calloused blister and the world the object to lance it. The moving itself thickens the callous. But seeking in this rubbing a defect, a splinter, a shardedge, a faultline, a break in the surface that will rip or slit or tear or prick. Seeking in a defect of the world an instrument of liberation. In this hoped for puncturing of our container a violence of inspiration and the original legacy of the impossible, which is human time.”
The defect is in Her. And the pulsation of constant failure, of rising and collapse, of fusion and dismemberment, of arrival and evaporation – a kind of body of carbonation – The defect is met only by not running away, from Her. Odors of food, so fleshy as to be edible, moving by the mind like tunnel lights. Discipline lancing the blister: to not eat of aromas. Not turning aside. Vision fails and returns. A constant coming to. A single length of rebar finally reaches its burial point in her, extension from me. Holding this firm. Without hands, using only body to hold. Heat and power in the form of a claustrum. Pressure. A death threat, and a serious legal charge, under pen. Risking each of our lives, diving at the rusty nail head found in the stamen of the bloom. Violence accompanies the lancing. Through the torn place rage ghosts smoke. The torn page. Sunlight seen through a glory hole. Calm later. A meat Spring.