Wild Horses Of Fire

Their reigns, my reigns, our reigns

When art does what they say
When art obligated them to move
When art fulfills this sense of movement
Into consent--is this a commons?

When art is a failure to move within the commons?
When the freedom drive idles?


Blamed by my sociality
This gift of war flames
Blamed by my locality
Three or four husband me

Like neighbors there is no
Connection between
Only proximity, only sounds
They make inside my insides

The scores of one displaced
Their movement there is a
Sound, of movement no one
Hears without a war

From which harsh gifts come,
That we were these gifts,
Their sharing and what
Can never be shared.


A deadened social potential
State name/shore up
The affect of “we have given up”
We are the robots and
No, no one will be given back.


We who play at waste

If at the end of this social potential, this potential of bodies in common and their common places in the language, there remained a rainbow--both covenant and broken promise.

Nothing will have been fair blow after blow. No awaiting holler inter(in)animating the time it took travel to undo. The upholstered air around our breath. The space left-over singing anything but me.

My voice like an area punctured by a wall of beats. What you can still feel as you swipe your card through the narrow slot. Feeling for the longed for beginning of feeling again. To create something other than “reaching your creative potential.”


For Dodie

No one comes back
But every one comes

Love cut-up again
Like a fantasy we project

In these states the asshole
The mouth we shared

Lips know their way only
Not where they’re going

The cunt like a fantasy
No thing returns as it was

All that was otherwise
Before our organs were.