Untitled (Nonsite Poems)

-for Brenda

So we dig a hole again
For the things we could
Have been but are not
Where the dead have

Spoken mouths all full
Of dirt the future like that
Photo of Oldenburg at
The National Mall his

“sculpture” neatly shaped
Like a grave in the back-
ground stands the Wash
ington monument tall

Phallus-like all bets are
Off all signs of grace
There are children gath
ered around him the pile

Of dirt no longer in that
Hole signals complicities
Words can’t read or
Figure myself conveyed

The difference anything
Makes when it’s moved
Those dead call me
Back from identity to you.



"You aren’t building amphitheaters to your personal thought patterns rather
you are ebbing away at cultural excess and the overload of spurious statement.

Your I is my eye and I in a non-possessive way. Maybe better said, I is what is of
you and likewise…?"

I is what is left of us?



A difference moved
By the sky again are we
One subject when these
Blanks lock us into

Place phase the we are
And will have not a
Future arranged by the
Distant past this land

Grab is real these gated
Communities of being
Finance puts words in
My mouth fucking me

I don’t mean animated
My body like a screen-
test in the ether shot
Through with effects

Small claims and what
Was once our genro-
sity seems waxen now
A scramble to be good

Being’s quick-fixes
Hold on to everything
While our asses were
Removed their digging

Despaired declaring
Us a consequence of
Exchange not actually
Redeemable


Nor perceived the scalp job those
With the most liberal conceits
Don’t know how to write any of
This their graves think our forth-

coming in an unprecedented air
Not your property not equality
As the few should like to have it
But the holes we poke in "self"

Like this was called spirit not a
Symbol not an innovation of the
Living but the way our words
Coursed ambiguous in their designs

Of feeling being with you being
Apart from you grows to this
Distance whereof I may affirm
That by which I is called to love.