Sous Rature



August 4, 2006:          Endless Seductress Resources (115 degrees and rising)


An interiority without start-point.      Bottled climes stick like lime soda.

We can’t imagine a     situation          beyond our means      
            so we can’t play this round                

                        reliance on pre-analytic thinking.

We can’t imagine the depth of the extinguishing:     

Do colors extinguish?             Do shapes?

The blue earth.            Pesticide present: Children and animals off.

Does tactility   extinguish?

A perverse engagement with growth.             Sealed off nourishment of the quixotic techno.

It has been an affair more than a marriage. The boundary glimmered there for us and we took it. The night was crazed with heat and insect noise and I listened in as the flowers rose up and flew out of the assemblage. The extinguishing was beyond perceptible increment and made us conquerors at last. What will happen to all the quiet?



June 20, 2007:                         Does Anybody Really Know What Time it is?


Each day forms a separate crystal in the mechanism of consideration.

Rising kinesthetic with doubt
electric with ambiguity                       into this misfunction.

Forcing forward the impulse               as in fish thrash           on the line
not wanting to be caught or thrown back either. Do you like the River as it overflows? Into your tepid backyard      it was made for more. Do you like the water rolling down your back, it was meant to clean you.

Stepping into the radiowave of the day hot and apart. That which will not grow conscious grows mineral its range from delicate to poisonous comes closer than you would like. A woman walks into the yard, I’ve wanted to swim all day pulling at the corners of the vampiric historical all day means a blink in this eco-system.

What we have learned of miscegenation we learned young. The body of the conversation is atavistic to the hand we run over it. Imagine that the string of consideration is at fault more than any individual thinking. Birds fly into the evening air with undone extremity. I wound up loving differently than I thought I would or wanted to and yet I did it. Would you like the world lined up? It can be thus.

The night itself a consideration a hopeful link in the chain that seems to have stalled mid-operative.         

Mothers undress slowly around the adulterous image of the page. I have wanted to swim all day. The water is coming and there in the tableau of suburban longing too large for pools too naïve for the rising tide, is the axis of change.

One plate of inappropriate selfhood meets another in an orange sunset.       I would touch that expenditure of body but if I do the system will rearrange itself. The riddle of the fertile zones. The herb garden just beyond reach. Chaos.

The crystalline mutual            the solstice abandons the equinox.
Deephearted today the earth in a back pocket tomorrow
it will roll over us with heat and rage.
That today we forget again what we remember         intuitively when we rest between scenes.
That this forgetfulness is itself a process.


March 12, 2008:        Snow Suddenly and as Suddenly Melting (Fallen Heroes)


Blank is not so.           Like separation.           What appears at first glance empty
           is often formally intended.

There on the horizon the heroes set themselves apart.

                       Almost a retraction.   

That long slow summer of worship.    We locked into the administration of power.
Celebration in the meatpacking district.         Oilcloth with long slow ladies.

The pantheon of genius and arisen.    Dinner on the surface of everyone’s breakdown:

Yes I will try your genius.      This is why they fall.
Locking into the ticks of conscious form.                  Homage as a form of weakness or                                 intellect.          Read unfortunately seriously.

As if she really wanted to write the entire poem about his powers.

Sleep there in the middle of the affidavit                   no more celebration
the butchers do their jobs       small fingers running up and down the length of our discussion              the super-heroes are not heroic anymore so why distinguish them        with their trivialities and their selling off?

Once classified the contract is loath to be broken.     Sitting by the butcher shop, hunger    acts as language          can no longer.                    I will watch the other transitive deluxe.   

Completion may take more courage than       the super-heroes have.
The dream, she said, was of people walking slowly by, métier in hand.       
Treating the street like a rue.
Treating water like vinegar.
Treating the flowers as if they were universal.

A small girl threatens to kill me.
What melts freezes again and vice versa. Don’t doubt the return to form.