Sunday, January 16, 2011


--after Renee Gladman

That little limit
Of the distance
Between ourselves

And the world,
Ourselves and event
Witnessing the haptic

Sense of the hand
Touching you,
The nipple tugged

And toggled
Beside one’s self.

That’s what living’s called
Deworlded by everyday dreaming

Busses loop this place
We would be, this city

That might identify the body
If it were here

Or the crowd
Would not disperse.

If we were anywhere
In this present and
Not dying from death

Which is different than
Actually having lived,
But not so different than
Writing –

A form of living with
Death inside a present
The words one writes
Withdraw us from.

Like a camera
Swoops in - it
Swoons and we
Are not unlike
It - gliding in
A sense of one’s
Own appearing
Among others.

Where we meet
Where the body
Touches other

Like a world was

Come to your senses
Come up from air, for air
From all this mumbo jumbo

The distribution of the senses
We are living in a grammar
Of commons, the most beautiful

Myth while actually not being
In common most of the time
The body breaks-up space

Does not grasp it, reassembles
The surround called sunshine
Already lapsed to an idea

Of me or you heat involves
The light from this incident
The forethought of our lives

In this event, not on the inside
Are you beautiful to me
For all time, but being

Inside-out and twisted
Like a territory we experience
In real time while observing

What we are when we are
Not writing, social substance like
A tracking shot makes 'me' area

And moment and movement
--a type of twice dying one
Experiences before their death.

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