23.
Nor will I sow joints.
Joints of flesh, joints of
wood
what wainscot cites.
Nor will I reap
enfeebled bones.
24.
A joy!
A joy to bake on the rock of Lazarus!
Living being a free-fall.
26.
There are holes
in the sky
almost like clouds.
The clouds of hell
I command
clandestine young thing
of flame and wing
we must be
subterranean,
our verses must
and unbind
many points in space.
These holes weren’t
punched by logic,
yet we can’t deny
they are there.
And we are here…
our arms make
penumbral the
presuppositions
of a time-based world.
There is
a difference between
a sky light
and a radiant hole.
Since one day
we will fly
flung by
our tearfulness.
27.
I sing thee two exposures, three masks of leaves.
For eternity, this motion waits on our poses (rounds of choice appear)
Tree of appearance, tree of barren knowledge
These free-falls know no expression.
A depth of field yields terminal views.
28 / 29.
Torsion a
pony
-tail whips rigor
mortis
of motion.
Torsion a ponytail
whips rigor mortis
of motion.
30.
Freeze frame of
the frozen retinal
“The mind”
breaks sound
barrier of these branches
Each one a false view of the thing.
No more do we hear
rational
in pastoral
than we touch
logos in ghosts
Seeing them for the trees
dark “beams” a mind
of black & white
breaks barrier of sight.
30.
The fly
a
buzz
in my iris.
A shaft
stuffed
in astral
ears.
34.
Only sometimes does death choose us.
Only sometimes breath
39.
A hazy absolute
a/k/a: the “all all”,
a/k/a : “the the”.
No such Elysian (But as the eyes have it)
The eye grows hazy
not wanting
once more to give up the world,
the “real world” again.
44.
Kiss me
I am young and
not young.
You are faceless.
Your total back
gives me the face.
49.
A little tear in the eye.
My thesis sticks to light.
It tells us nothing
of where we are looking
or where we are
(these dark
room ontologies, these bad
brains).
Tear the foreground first
then remember
a sliver of light motion misapprehends.
55.
Bardo is my business.
No kidding
Don’t be afraid of losing your invisible limbs (spectral analytic).
There are still solid things to guide you, material to purchase.
Where to start?
Not being a real boy.
New organs are new notions.
56.
This dream-state of erasing and erasing
(if it is a dream-state at all)
can no longer hurt you.
These leaves have grown up with us.
We take full responsibility for the bite-marks.
56.
Autopsy of an x-ray.
59.
What the fuck?
Why is the world so heavy,
and me so light.
My so called solid hands.
60.
This is
the moment
of lightness
I live for
(discontinuously dying to live).
Alighting –
the wings of
the world
gazing
through each instance,
each instance gazes
through you.
Dear view finder…
Who is an angel NOT of history?
62.
Would it be rude to peer into my tongueless mouth the absolute?
68.
Mutants, we are all pure forms of maternity.
Cathedrals and
camera
obscuras
her hair
aglow.
Not quite an apocalypse.
68.
This umbilical kiss.
The light no longer can conceal.
That unacknowledged world.
Hush now, Plato.
85.
Craving a plausible
shape for the dead and not
in fact a voice.
What were you expecting?
Night is quick to rise and
covers the obelisk
Secrecy being
the first form power takes.
Plotting your return to the living
what is it you see
more curious than frightening?
86.
These mannerist endgames
(we play anyway).
The game of pastoral, columns, perspective (
prospective surds
)
(Nor were these cities ruined in a day.)
Thin wires
(optical chiasm) chiasmus
strip sense of thing.
88.
A white wall may be the world's end.
For Melville.
Overwhelming pictures.
101.
Ill Cyclops, my filament?
How can you just float there
like that.
Always a light
source, never
a god.
There will be no words for what you dream
(random sound-image).
No worldly
eyes for the transmigratory.
114.
You dig.
I dig.
This blur.
*composed September-November '05. To Brandon Stosuy.