Saturday, March 24, 2007

For Open You Became the Cut

"My body salvating in hell is my home."
~ Nina Simone

In this relentless
Wind beyond and in
Our hands I feel
This world again
And that sky of sight
Lines or Nonsites call
To me infinitely
In this infinite
Wind of disaster
What is not answerable
Adequately what
Calls but so we are
Disaster is
Our business a frequency
Of forms turning.


Patch me in. Give me some skin
Skin trader. Leather regard
Exchange value. That montrosity
This animal. Become a thing
Hypertelic. So shorn shadeful
Shine cephale. Acephale seal
Vigilance make. A mold for when
A mill for where. Grist coded
To its rust. Boring off another
Coast of anwhere. Economics not
No place if we posit. "Utopia"
Always timely. Always soon-to-be

Always contemporary. Rocks now
As if every name. Partakes of this one
Name phylum of the dead. Matters all drift-
Wood as once I imagined. Cage or Reich
So hearing. Off a peninsula. Waves detritus
As such. Was a horizon for us or algorhythmic
Birds virtually born there. Into a material
Dillemma of mass and number. Crunch
Numbers (literally) but remain. With me my
Univocals die into this life twice dead
Become a thing for the making--

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