Prospekt

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.

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.

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,
stretch-marked
memory.

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
washed.

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.

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.

THE SPEECH

I spoke as in a wheel
spokes.

Supported the curvature, I
supported the ongoingness,

the goingson, some
beheadings, I

& the fascist in I
on the dusty road

reinventing.

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.

Published May 2016.