Peace On A presents: Dan Featherston & Catherine Taylor (Ad)

Peace On A

presents

Dan Featherston & Catherine Taylor

reading for the launch of Featherston’s *The Clock Maker’s Memoir* (more info below!)

Friday, February 1st 2008 8PM
BYOB & $5 donation

hosted by Thom Donovan with Cuneiform Press at:

166 Avenue A, Apartment #2 (btwn 10th and 11th)
New York, NY 10009

about the readers:

Dan Featherston is the author of several books of poetry, including *The Clock Maker’s Memoir* (Cuneiform Press, 2007), *United States* (Factory School , 2005), and *Into the Earth* (QuarryPress, 2005). His critical writings on American poetry and poetics have appeared in a number of publications, most recently Charles Olson: A Poet's Prose. While living in Tucson , he helped found POG, a poetry group that has hosted dozens of performances by poets and artists, and edited A.BACUS, a journal of experimental poetry and translation. Featherston is currently a visiting professor at Kutztown University. He lives in Philadelphia with Rachel McCrystal and their dog Fredo.


Carceral Time

Forced to sleep with their hands exposed
how will a tool take shape?

Dreams take the shapes of tools
through which the body escapes itself.
A wake. A spoon baked into a cake.

In the fist of memory
time was folding inward.

(from *The Clock Maker’s Memoir*)


Catherine Taylor teaches at Ohio University. Her essays, poetry, and reviews have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Typo, Xantippe, The Colorado Review, The Laurel Review, Jacket, and ActionNow. Taylor is a Founding Editor of Essay Press (www.essaypress.org), a small press dedicated to publishing book-length innovative essays. She is at work on a hybrid genre book about South Africa and a scholarly book about 20th-century documentary representations of political violence entitled */Documents of Despair/*.


nobody, who are you? A fucking nation? Walcott I’m not. A roseate universe, subcutaneous nipple, prismatic cd playing cum and dust and Oum Kalsoum. National identity’s inevitable as sand, blood, a dark juggernaut MLK refused to accept despair as the only response to the ambiguities of history, but I can’t, today, so far from you, O Canada, who is asked to represent it. Which I’s slip the noose? Salim Halali’s heart may have been a foreign country, mine’s a minefield for you, h’bibi, skip the stones, centrifugal archipelago, ruin

(from an untitled work)

Peace On A is an events series devoted to emergent work by writers, artists, performers and
scholars. Link Wild Horses of Fire weblog (whof.blogspot.com) for back advertisements,
introductions, reading selections and pics.


THE CLOCK MAKER'S MEMOIR by Dan Featherston
Advanced praise for *The Clock Maker’s Memoir*:

Through a series of poised, meditative stanzas, *The Clock Maker’s Memoir* takes on the formidable topics of time and memory. What’s evident throughout this book is a careful craftsmanship leading to novel perspectives all around the clock.
~ Lisa Jarnot

*The Clock Maker’s Memoir* registers the world’s variety in small catalogs of storms, shadows, dreams, memories, and rituals of childhood. In such forms, time returns each time with a difference. Likewise, the supple measure of these poems returns us to a rhythm or tone each time with a difference, sounding a subtle echo of slipped in sleep. As William Blake declares, “There is a Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find / Nor can his Watch Fiends find it.” Yet Dan Featherston finds it — through alert and resourceful art.
~ Devin Johnston

With its precise music, *The Clock Maker’s Memoir* navigates the immeasurable distance between the clock’s face and the face worn by lived experiences. In these poems, memoir is not some static repository: it is a poesis of the present tense. Featherston’s craft and his unblinking commitment to particulars fashion a lyric search that one can trust to ask the questions, the necessary questions of time, space, and how we find one another amidst all this memory.
~ Richard Deming

This book will soon be available from Small Press Distribution (www.spdbooks.org). Order direct from Cuneiform (www.cuneiformpress.com) and you'll receive FREE SHIPPING. Send a $12 check to: Cuneiform | 214 North Henry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11222

“Effort lay in us
before religions”
~ Lorine Niedecker










photos courtesy Dan Featherston & Geoffrey Gatza

My Chance (II)

Sings amber rose hues blue
Splits the morning air sun

Rendered a perpetual window
Everywhere you should really

Read the paper dummy pay
Attention follow hand to its living

Conclusion caresses can do no
Harm in fact they wander without

End distractedly like the body
Can't know anything when we

Do what we do I think of talking
Like this also a "happy" poem

A "sad" one undergoes skin
Stalks eyes pressure intends

Sings the bright blue white
What happens happens since

You are a song or pressed to
Me what is news anyway when

No one was a product no one
Was alienated brifely we could

See things finally as just things
Things just in their thing-ness.

My Chance

~ after Loren Connors' *As Roses Bow*

1.
Where did anything come
from that it must all fall
down and float and rise

uncovered the strings wh
ere you put them plucked
in the air anywhere we are

not and sometimes abrupt
ly stopping for what did air
stop for what did it pass

into evening or blacker suns
wake recent things the human
voice is not even there

when it is memory is the
memory of every recurrence
for which strings circle

roses in animal grace
the perfect obedience in every
thing you chose not to do

the air impulsively you
did not put here sensing
what opens out there.

2.
Nothing disappearing
disappears my heart
yours plays any way
it wishes floats up from

such things the meaning
of it all in our timing
a tangle degrees don't scare
easily not afraid of thin

air the inside in this ether
pulled out the other end
of the song nothing
appearing appears again

to stop to flutter heart
all bassy in which air is
this the air of winter before
spring glacial and old

when fairies first learned
to cope with the human
sprung from their heads my
heart yours plays with steam

melting ice glacial and old
of certain fields one plays
the world any way they will
so gravity whithers away.

Blood Noise (Whiter Than Sun)

with Betsy Bonner

I.

I write from a sacred mountain

Not only the
body, but the whole
architecture of memory

changes

handmirror, quince
and comb
I've been dreaming

here seven days male and female
cypresses

(big differences
between them)

wild narcissus will crowd
the path we have when it's too bright

to see

but the doves
don't mind, whiter than sun

who's here who's
here who's here,

then stop suddenly.

Somes Lines & Phrases From Robert Kocik*

"Which is ostensible democracy"
"can only cause" " English speak
ing to fight" "to simplify" "we lea

ve for our children" "America ca
ptive" "self-justification distorts
eternity" "I prescribed life" "as o

pposed to medicine" "correct in
complaining" "the sensation bit
ing into" "to be brought before"

"no bodily link" " is all that's req
uired" "soldiers and salesman"
"the patient is the medicine" "but

basking is neither light nor dark"
"takes effect" "scorn for spiritual
discernment" "heal first the words"

"are heaping up" and a word tur
ned pathogenic" "may not have
intended the wording" "the inver

se nervous system" "even at the
point of the heart" "the brain isn't
even involved yet" "creditors panic

and rage" "the predator is on the
inside" "no one told me that this
was a poetry reading" "remember

labor?" "one's own medicines with
in" "is the building inside not in
capacitated?" "nothing is wrong it's

just we're diseased" "copious copy
ing" "in a post psycho-somatic age"
"I just love the taste of a stranger"

"people are dying from nothing" "f
ree range genoming" "the parasym
pathetic system" "accusing Darwin"

*transcribed at Segue this past Saturday

Three By CA CONRAD*

April 21
“Ought to send the mayor and them
other politicians over to fight the war!
You know how long they’d last! Yeah!”
--Kathleen McCollough, one
of Philadelphia’s homeless
Senior Citizen Soothsayers

phrasing lack…
time was
longer once

then the
sponge of
routine

whose idea
was this
planet
anyway!?

you mother
fuckers
shitting
on life

time

throat muscle!

hearse & 4
of Hearts
corner of
15th & Green

celebrity guest: ABUNDANCE!

car is nick
name of auto
mobile
Jay’s nick
name his
first
initial

what was a
window before
the word?

imagine entire
cities with no
language
no?
no.

for other
possibilities
please ignore
your priest

your
mouth will
free
you

gnaw your
foot from
the trap
c’mon you!

who mentions
Pegalina first? (one time
this guy yelled
*SUCK MY DICK!*
she yelled *I’LL CHEW
YOUR CROTCH INTO
A PUSSY!*
she’s not
kidding
mister!)

what are we
doing here
Sherlock
playing
Black Jack
at the bar this
fascist restaurant
where I once waited
tables Police Trainer
video game where
I sucked dope and
made out with the
nerdy dishwasher in
the cooler where
sausage beat cheese
where sex on the
job replaced health
insurance and rent
overdue where I
first thought if
restaurants in
the afterlife
don’t serve
themselves
I’m not
going!





May 1
“We just heard a live recording
of Dvorak’s *Symphony No. 4 in
d Minor*, with former president
Ronald Reagan playing all
nine instruments at once.”
--radio DJ in my
dream last night

shooting six
pointed stars
for the seal
of Solomon

what american
corporations
did Death
contract to
build our
eternal
hotels?

the unions
are *fucked!*

the Third
World will not
enter the
Afterworld as
the Third World
or was your
bible another
political
promise
or warm
piss
divined
as milk?

taste your
own and
let me
know

my friend
says she’d
rather see
state-imposed
atheism than
state-imposed
theism but I’d
rather see
the state
disappear

can’t we
imagine our
hands on
one another
instead? question
our extent
of warmth
LOVE was
a tomb for
awhile
between
borders

I will live
with you like
war has finally
ended please
meet me
there

if drag queens
ruled the world
our warmth
would never be
in question

great teachers
remain great
students

classic
evil new
evil what’s
the fucking
difference?

Sherlock and
I see Masonic
symbols every
place we look
Setting Mauls
Trowels a
butcher’s side
of beef in
window
sports an
All-Seeing
Eye this is
getting creepy
can we
leave
now?





May 30
“Just when you think
the work week’s over
there’s one more
lap to go!”
--Brett Evans every
Thursday

it never said
Tear Gently
it said
Tear Here

look at rush
hour—what if
it’s just a
repeat of
this after
we die?

I’ll be so
pissed off!

hold on
initiates
of the
sun

see how
they danced
and died
in a
hundred
year old
movie

they NEVER have
the *Valley of the
Dolls* soundtrack on
these goddamned
juke-boxes
around here!

ME: his father made
him pray to expel
all deviance

SHERLOCK: expel all
deviance!? where would
I be without it!?

that’s not a
loop hole mr.
president that’s
a hula-hoop

let’s follow the
insider trader’s trail
to the University of
Pennsylvania

Karma
another
cleaver of
the rich

it’s never
poor folks who
tell me every
body gets
what they
deserve

Sherlock wants
Diana Ross and
Lionel Richie to
redo *Endless Love*
as *Endless War*
it’s a
virus
Peace somewhere
means War was
sneezed some place
else our planet is
always sick with us

but I’m grateful
insects aren’t
bigger

(to the High Hat poet
who snubbed Sherlock)
Alice Notley told us
after her reading
“some poets like to
pretend poetry is
middle class” YEAH!
Alice KNOWS!

Lorrine Niedecker
mopped floors for
a living but if
her poems were
bullets most poets
would get it good!

* from his collaboration with Frank Sherlock, *The City Real and Imagined*, forthcoming from Factory School.

Recurrencies

for Carolee

Tapping the blood prime image of them
pomegranate red a rose arose life like

a dream dreams us like linings for be-
coming paint stirs potentia menses deep
research stirred like red pomegranate
red a rose aroused from bed this firm-

ament sex to extricate from lips mouth
of that boundary red in perpetuity
information divides the self recombines

no one since these states were made by
psychos such hard won ambiguities re
course blood prime image of her erotica
pomegranate red rose arose a round as
here no dream can end no where with

the lips we kiss or can’t with what bound
aries dividends divide the soul image
makes its way as space your conscious

ness enduring mouth lips of that which
kiss them and are a face brightened by
expression and are this whole body taking
place blood red rose arise aroused not

merely the symbolic not merely a history
of the real those stakes of your willing.

Anecdote

for Kyle

Just the facts my friend the man
taken for dead literally ‘at his

word’ is undead like a sign we
point to or hold-up like any

logical picture of harm points
disconnected on which map

a march of engines set a match
to search the fire so be it for

substance reveals what’s seen in
the said and demonstrated don’t

repeat yourself this that ran deep
lining their real with the sym

bolic giving number to event
defacing space so stats reveled.

Wonder Beirut

We are attempting to find new ways to create images through evocation, absence, latency. Latency is a state which haunts all of our work. Traditionally, latency is defined as the state of what exists in a non-apparent manner, but which can manifest itself at a given moment. The latent image is the invisible, yet-to-be developed image on an exposed surface.

To this should be added the idea of "the dormant", of slumber, of slumbering, of something that can be awakened. To us, latency is beyond evidence. It is the reminiscence of an image, of knowledge but which can be barely grasped. How can one produce images, export them, move them around, while avoiding cut-and-dried definitions? As image producers, we try to avoid being made use of, or taken over by, propaganda within our country or region, or reduced to a simplifying , often "orientalist", vision. Our work takes into account this possible risk, this breach.

Aware of this situation, we resort to the idea of the anecdotal. Etymologically, the anecdotal appears as something unrevealed, something kept secret, at odds with a certain concept of history.

In our opinion, the anecdotal is not necessarily metaphoric, but rather symptomatic. It is not small history trying to reflect history at large, but a research around sensations, and the re-appropriation of events, like elements of space-time that record a specific, significant moment.

The symptomatic is therefore the possibility of an image, the manifestation of something made visible. A symptomatic image is intimately linked to its context, to a situation and to a history. It is a proposal, an experience. By going back to a personal fact, to a given event, or to "something secret", we refuse the spectacular aspect and the general sociological subject. The symptomatic image is the product of a situation that cannot be reduced to an allegory or a symbol.

The anecdotal is the possibility of approaching our history. If we consider official history as written by the winners, there is another unofficial and subversive space governed by the anecdotal, "the thing kept secret", which perforates that official frame. Latency is about affirming a presence. The anecdotal is the story and development of that presence.

~ from Joana Hadjithomas's and Khalil Joreige's "Wonder Beirut," in *Out of Beirut*, Modern Art Oxford, Manchester, 2006.

For Martha

If we could find anywhere those points
of contact skin perfect tense nervous
make us commence breath gives us some

reason to be us here together and some
times delay I ‘provisional termini’ to make
a point is not always to identify to awake

fingers figures this meridian sense is deep
ceded on the skin how the brain blossoms
in between we too percepts mitochondria

was the mother of no one prehistory a cle
ave of cells tell us where it hurts the animal
talking out there in that open more harmed

than usual please take me on tour with you
points puncture misfire from more we too
blank dwellings in which worlds formed.

A Devotion

~ for Nathaniel Dorsky

Coincident to this legibility learning newly
How to see or be duration sometimes an image
Is only an image we take this to heart the time
It takes to make out bends beads like light
Itself emergent from life sequent like a thousand
Stars were numbers that weren't the dark any
Longer nor separate seemingly from water

The words for images broken here we call them
Articulate we say they present articulation itself
An interruption of the present tense while we
See we see a lot of branches tracking branches
Forest focus black sun then don't light up the world
Again one flown stem I knew I was hallucinating

Then the world woke up each new sequence
For what potentia the bright ambiance the solitude
Of the image like a singing of the eyes to attention
In variance forest focus film the things moments
We won’t forget because we will them to not
Become forgotten because the memory is coincident
To this will because we are all short or long takes

Duration has a life of its own image coincident like
Suns suddenly vacant like close-ups of pavement
Matter like spirit or throwing the ball back or
“or” itself as a hinge for all perception language
Flickered and was a magnet for the attention
The appearance of the world and the world itself

A prayer said with the help of lenses cropping cris-
crossing one’s somnolence in distraction also
A pattern of attention that fabric of waves chain-
linked those eyes groping for some purchase shadows
Or any outline overlapping shade leaves separate
One reflection from another the mannequins lips part
What light replaces a lens flare so here burns up.

Last Man

My heart your paradise called
Secret water by the Sioux hack
Supplies first then hack spirit

When we don’t have anything
Left but this dance assimilation
Calls our names that is what it

Does like Hannah taught us to
Be silent what boundaries must
These hands forge to say any

Thing the spirit came and went
Don’t forget to write witness
When the shit hits the fan

Sitting Bull was the last man
Standing to what do you banish
Permanent exiles but to undeath

Promise me the imminent end
Of all white culture so all names
May return eccentric to need.

The Weeping

(seasons greetings to Robert and Daria)

That you weep and in weeping
are both the mother and child

mother of that difficult delivery
child of that difficult birth

that you are me and I am you
given to a relation of difficult
sympathy sympathy of the "God-

head" who can never be both
whole and created except when
we pray except when we attend

letters sympathy of the whole
for its creation these broken

shards of Being their radiance
sympathy of that which turns

to its creator as a broken thing
with the never-assembled never
all-known whole when you said

this that you were both mother
and child weeping I almost cried
for difference when you say

such things I die into life
sympathetically difficult tonight

the voices of plastic snow flakes
lit-up receded when "we" was

similarly difficult walking
the broad sidewalk together
with no hand to touch us just

the apprehensions of “otherness”
without eyes to commence
what sight sees when we can’t

what site what cant in eyes there
is no ‘disinterest’ except when I

is interrupted larger desires begin
Self with a capital “s” everything

had the look of interior actually
being exterior the train platform
felt narrow and was narrow in

fact from all the body could feel
thereby tell the plaster peeling
off the wall a wreck with history

so history itself was also us so
touched and the whereabouts of

words the wherewithal of all words
we couldn’t taste were doubts

there are forms that do Express
ionism better ‘say saying’ cry
a cry of exile we are given to

the difficult births of this season
the “holiday season” one should
not say Christmas this is not

a Christmas card one should
not for the far-flung difficulty of

every light plastic or not the
ground of which being should not

purchase this isn’t 'epic' nor is it
ordinary the way those flakes
don’t fall given to their reproducible

sense forms which continue of
every consumer conscience the
economy which gives us I wanted

to cry for them too since they
are also created plastic is also

a product I wanted to cry for
them as we do for us alone and

the coffee house with its good
intentions that wasn’t you and
the duplexes and other houses

one normally doesn’t see in the
city that wasn’t you and the little
restaurant with its organic

foods that wasn’t you all such
intimacies and good intentions

that must amount to something
if only what they exclude in this

season of the undead when one
tailors their pants with their
shrinking bones in this season

when one suffers distantly the things
the sensations of the world war
didn’t bring home the reduced

numbers of a body count cele
brated as peace distractions from

another brewing war so we were
before it the "you" and "the camel"

the camel and us both I hope we
are not merely being eschato-
logical nor should our sympathy be

reduced to season’s greetings
anything that could be gained
by wishing alone as you recognize

this sympathy our tears are a
susceptibility to everything would

countersign us counteract in a
friendlier fire of 'pure means' become

body we wanted to know what a
'subtle body' could do welcoming
of antigens adieu supple to any

thing might otherwise destroy it
its real power in listening attuning
and adapting so I hear these guns

far away as unreal as they are here
in my head and become them

a buzzing of bees want their friend
ship to destroy me to not do

this world any further harm these
tears this cry was the cry of every
antinomy given to ‘weeping as not

weeping’ a ‘remains’ when we
should not be "I" any longer
we seek such Charitas in ducts

gusts of every brief madness fever
that heals we seek this Charitas

in guns will have no other site than
to be revealed by veils becoming

eyes torn at them what potential
tears you and I you as you me as me
in difficult sympathy susceptibility

"ever-lasting" 'perceptual eternity'
liveforever my tears and die outside
make them a sign of life and no

longer death-affirming grasp this
preanimate means which was ‘my

life’ whether genetics or the face
one would lose to save "highness".

Silent Teacher Remembered

Here is a link to a piece I wrote for Casey McKinney's FANZINE after "A Reading for Hannah Weiner's Open House" at St. Mark's November 28th:

http://www.thefanzine.com/sections.php?s=features&id=201&a=articles

An Astral Project

~ for Conrad

1.
For a discourse you are like a dust
in the glass half-drunk outside us
or me an eternity of cells reanimate

aims recognitions zig-zag make
energy rise out of body counts four
suicides per second the way capital

keeps time in China live elevators
dead labor but your body won't
be a slave to no body susceptible

projects learning astrally virtual be
cause one has to die to make the
poem one sings of crystals Berkeley-

like worlds of bodies taking images
of bodies bodies taking-in these
images should we be univocal energy

in any other form your conversation
loans me a place of debt is where
I comes from becuase our life of pet-

itions is not objective your haunted
places became batteries for loops
surviving chakras displaced number.


2.
Like that glass ½ empty yet full of you
we found our names in a 'now time' we
Would try to describe you site the pla

ces of a city that once were you and are
still you in some sense of the facts 'if
one is to resort to a simile the simile

better be pretty fucking good' numbers
were energy and crystals images indica
tive of bodies in motion organicity is his

tory written because it’s here where we
walk and talk between alleyways and all
the carriage houses snug with outcry

from that beyond of our life as it is lived
and constitutes an economics beyond
money or force alone no other metonym

than what says how we were here and
sometimes now and thereby redeemed
by waiting by simply waiting among

these ‘Cartesian phantoms’ other folk
subjects before the thoughts of the dead
came back sore sparkling a wreck of I’s.

Kyle Schlesinger's *Hello Helicopter* (Blurb)

*Hello Helicopter*. Or hello *helikos*? As Robert Smithson tells us of his Spiral Jetty film, not so distantly from Kyle Schlesinger’s poetics: “For my film (a film is a spiral made up of frames) I would have myself filmed from a helicopter (from the Greek helix, helikos meaning spiral) directly overhead in order to get the scale in terms of erratic steps." Much after Clark Coolidge’s own “depositions,” and affinities as disparate as Larry Eigner, Larry Fagin, Frank Kuenstler, Bernadette Mayer, Lorine Niedecker, George Oppen, Ron Silliman and Rosemarie Waldrop in Schlesinger's poetry language bifurcates geo-glyphically forming mantles (veils, plates) for a metapolitics of the person determined by intense logics of sense. Joyrides into exteriority, these lapidary (drilled, mined, refined, chiseled) texts find form in an “everyday” (read: actual!) practice made ambivalent by the twin indiscernible points of paramnesia and paronomasia, rushing upon History and the *instant* where “memory survives necessity,” forging “a fold between these folds / / then helicopter”. “It all comes down to this…”--literally. So dig it! “Fossils have terms of their own” and these poems endlessly propose, so carefully degreed.

After Aimé Césaire

What wish your season in hell
affirms pus rejectamenta Species
beings what wants your time
forms Necessity given history

so lowly heaven asks the price
of culture prosaically tattooed
on the body claiming ressenti
ment productive for identities

despair of muck dejects contin
ents incontinent ungainly how
could we do anything other than
whip inventing sciences other

projects telescope I want you to
have this pound of flesh accept it
as a gift of death but there are
no take-backs no words enough

for anger management to not be
false a kind of finger to the flood
history is not just a nightmare when
it comes down to it but a hell we

must affirm should anything be
transformed an image of the col
lective a historical subject over
come if I would ever be you if you

would be I 'I is an other' you keep
doing it to me how to take the
names of all things "bad" or "good"
and fling them forget to forgive.

Me Death

~ for Daria, Eleni, Fiona and Robert
after RobbinsChilds' C.L.U.E.


It helps to fall to sleep listening
to words poured out the side
of your chest a paradise
it helps
to listen to the sounds these words make
broken down to their least elements 


‘textual units’ to educate
to heal the body in pain one asks
‘Are you suffering?’ you reply

‘I am always suffering’
to be alone at the place

where I breaks from you
consequentially called back from our
‘blindness envy’ this must be
Grace ‘if I be in a state of Grace
then may it continue’

suffering just to be HERE (Here
too...) to continue being
shot through
blood becoming
place rides out the wine
you will take that staircase down

discover you truly in relation
in that dark event you will descend
into dark's likeness
communicating voice I want
the body to be a voice a socius ex-

tricated from a content
versions of the Amor 
Fati
all the hills had eyes
in this gauzy incidence light winding
away from life

as they did all that was East
and West conveyed its ME DEATH
in myths occluding an actual
pomegranate a cadaver is to us
as we are to this dance

the supple intelligence of the dancer


for dance to be the case a couple locked
in place two bodies
for a field more erogenous

in not being 'modern'

power risks the body's borders
interferent outlying our
substance 
forms the subject
objectless in movement
already an event what paper

cups produce center
they threw their clothes into
the abyss of being 'feminine'
otherwise of-a-sudden

climbing from life in reverse

climbing for their lives really
falling while doing this
so it
seemed two screens project
the NO ONE we are when we move
any center whatever was.

Me Death

~ for Daria, Eleni, Fiona and Robert

It helps to fall to sleep listening to words poured out the side of your chest a paradise
it helps to listen to the sounds these words make broken down to their least elements
‘textual units’ to educate to heal the body in pain one asks ‘Are you suffering?’ you reply
‘I am always suffering’ to be alone at the place where I breaks from you consequentially
called back from our ‘blindness envy’ this must be Grace ‘if I be in a state of Grace then
may it continue’ suffering just to be HERE (Here too...) to continue being shot through

blood becoming place rides out the wine you will take that staircase discover you truly
in relation in that dark event you will descend into dark's likeness communicating voice
‘I want the body to be a voice’ a socius extricated from a content versions of the Amor
Fati all the hills had eyes in this gauzy incidence light winding away from life as they did
all that was East and West conveyed its ME DEATH in myths occluding an actual pom-
egranate a cadaver is to us as we are to this dance the supple intelligence of the dancer

for dance to be the case a couple locked in place two bodies for a field more erogenous
in not being 'modern' energy risks the body's borders interferent outlying our substance
forms the subject objectless in movement already an event what paper cups produce
center they threw their clothes into the abyss of being 'feminine' otherwise of-a-sudden
climbing from life in reverse climbing for their lives really falling while doing this so it
seemed two screens project the NO ONE we are when we move any center whatever was.

NO ONE's Autopathography

for Eleni, Rob and Taylor
after Muriel Rukeyser's "Book of the Dead"

Power becomes you dear endangered body skin so thin with armor
amorous Isis Osiris scattered becomes us compels you this subtlety in over-

sensitivity as the hills which once were white-mottled Romantic models as
Rukeyser would make ironic alloy call a rose a rose and us by any other aim

would recognize no other power but in degrees of this world transcendent so hell
is also MY SELF on earth because we made the factories time convolute
Vertov touted the machine age Williams never sang the Passaic for labor per se

that other Eternity power always exists the problem is what to do with it
how NOT to USE is sometimes how to direct writing from a white heat O Love

O downy picturesque particulars and pastoral spotlessness pimps your poem

“glassy moons” confound the social every rose wants to be a rose merely
every nation just a nation but can not because we fall to rise every rose begs

to be both interrupted and ongoing a paradox tautological as every pane
of glass which thisness inheres that bears witness a SOUL for every violence
committed to someone in this world of force and nothing else a gun sites the said

dialectics tread on where desires go into the Open of control my sovereign
my brain-sickness my body my head prevented the tongue as well he asks HIM

SELF “am I alive?” a ghost of sorts while she pursues her actual Bardo power at
the price of exploitation hatred at the price of force so illness transformed her.