Aditi Machado




Every day I wake & my life
is private. I see a sun. A coiling
memoir. There is anaphora
in the sun. There is a sun,
it has brightened. A loss in this
unyielding every day I wake—

there is privacy. A mirror
brightens the fascist
in me. When the speech
is made the proscenium
erects everyday
theatre. I make a kind
of debris. When I speak
the fascist in me speaks.

O countries & natives, o
wordless obeisance, o privacy
coiling in the memoir— 

a great book I will write
is not my private life. A tornado
is simply warning for nothing
that appears out of chaos. A sun

in the fascist, in the hard cold
private life of the citizen, I
make a breakfast. There is a sun
still. There is a house
I move through. A bracken,
a tongue meet.


A bracken, a tongue.
A bracken, a tongue.
A tongue, a tomb
I move through
to arrive at word-like
edifice. Gingerroot,
canna, asparagus, iris.
There is a room
I cook in. There is a
sun outside it.
I empty a vase,
I fill a bowl,
floral notes, spice.
The throat is a corset
I wear, I tighten,
from which I exude.
I eat, I speak,
it is sexual. Prep
work, like eros, is
in the minutiae.


When one enters a room one becomes its audience. One audits its dimensions,
decides whether to reverse the dynamic or keep it. If one keeps it one remains that
most mysterious of facts: a furnishing. One sits in a corner & one reads, deity. If one
reverses it one turns into that most gratifying of agents: a speaker. One expends
energy, loses one’s reserve. The most minimal sculpture is a rock. The work of
privacy is maximal. Look at this, draw some curtains, exit.


Breakfast makes time
out of edibles.
When a body desires
its continuance
that is need.
When it desires
its dissipation
that is want.
I make an order.


Felt in the mind of god is an idea.

As god I write my book of ideas.

“When the universe thinks itself without being outside itself, we name that “thinking” God.”

When I think myself I do not disappear.

When I think my thinking my thinking disappears.

When I think myself thinking I onan.

It is the opposite of what they say:
the gods do not equal their occasions.


There is a speech
under the speech
as below the sea
more sea.

For Piaf there was
singing & the wind
covered it.

There is a body
& a sexual body
& the kiss was
to the first of these. 

There is a speck
moving along the river
as along the edges
of a room. 

There is a dance.
The interminable leaving
of rooms for which
there are seasons.


& there are gods & there are species
& faces & windows & clouds & copulation.
One of the world’s patterns is collective.


A wind, a text.
A wind, a text.
The wind touches
to the skin textile.
Rayon, a cotton tag.
To be in public,
to feel private.
I am watched
& pleasured.
Grateful, I return.


One day there are notes you follow in an orchestra of worldly movement, the next
you skew. The propagandas come into play when you become aware of how you
are against how you never are. What are the alternatives? Consider the continua
that are vegetal & mineral. How they be you cannot be. You breakfast, you organize.
Futures in the distillery. Pasts in the windmill.


So wind is a textual experience. So I revel in its ambiguities.
So may I stand whole minutes suffering its arrivals at the station.
So may I in this manner feel felt in the mind of whatever
is greater than I. & in the consideration of what is greater than I I
become lost in the folds of eros. & in appearing out of this maze

I become ready to speak my name to the stations that ask.
This is always & everywhere how I am sculpted, baroque
& wavering, submitting my shape to some common stipulations.


My shape, a desk.
A desk, a window,
a lighting condition.
To breakfast
amid the books.

There are events
to be lived through

that calcify
as required,
thinking conditions
to be sipped.
I am tired & sleepy.
The taste of things
does not resurrect
grand palaces,


Events collocate bodies. The copula is
witting, nests toward death, chooses to requisition
via tongue, unpierced, uncut.
I’ll cut it when I want to know more.


Unpierced, uncut,
unpruned, uxorious,
remaindered satin-
like, in prophecy
washing, in acid


A garden, a pattern.
Worms & tongues.
Sexual organs, peeling
green parts, fruit
& thorn & thorning paths.

There is a garden I garden.
A bracken, a tongue meet.


One day there was no organization or I could organize nothing & there was
radiance, a rare radiance from within, of saws & metal in the hot works, a floral
incertitude moving like decay & something about speaking to myself was unlyrical &
unspecial, so deeply private that


I were an I wending the garden, I there way out there
picking flowers in the heat. I were subsuming an ornamental
floral convention until it were entering were vaginal
until something like sap were vocable & I readable,
pathlike down the way, lovers everywhere
& upon the knee, no clauses.


A thing is a cicada when it tends toward sexual disorientation
& I is an orient in the sense that all things wend toward me.


“Pain is a flower,” its symmetry

opens radially. The sick flower,

“a sort of diffuse, bodily pain, extending

by radiation,” I never found its center.


Every day I wake I see sun,
it’s blue. I wake, I see wine
glass. Through it
its other side. Something vital
in me is worsening
the problem. I believe
like memory. That is,
when I remember that is
prayer. To make one’s mind
religion is deep pool-
like monomania &
there was a snakebite
in the dream. Through it
its other side. Pain
when I wake. & to worsen
the problem into its full pasture,
why pain when I wake,

the bite in my thigh as if true.
When prayer is to remember,
when mind is to religion
I confuse the effects of limbs
for limbs & through the sheet
the sun is blue. Disproportion
of labor to what is achieved.


One way to see grammar is to think fields, how bare they are until you look
underneath. At their limits are nouns to which you run & you pick them up & cannot





I spoke as in a wheel

Supported the curvature, I
supported the ongoingness,

the goingson, some
beheadings, I

& the fascist in I
on the dusty road



O copular scapular,
o joints & weddings,
your presence, your
prescience, this love
of grammar I cannot
resist, this day
that will not pass
its morning, this soft
labor, delicate palate.


Aditi Machado's first book of poems, Some Beheadings, will
be published by Nightboat in 2017. Other work from this
manuscript is available or forthcoming in VOLT, Witness, The
Capilano Review, 
and webConjunctions.

"Prospekt" quotes from Etel Adnan’s Sea and Fog, Robert Creeley’s “The Flower,” and
Marcel Proust’s Le côté de Guermantes (translation author's), in that order.


Published May 2016.