I. A fiery wheel or a dove

I was puzzling. Heroic.
And a barstool.
I was not a throne.

You were both tide and landfall.
A splash of brine.

We were an olive

swallowed, inarticulate
wildly mundane
and not too laconic.

You were conceived in tandem.

We breathed I am, I am not,
breath after breath
in the wardrobe.

I ate silage.
You ate corn out of season.
We wanted to be layered.

They found intricate displays
in your footnotes.

We have our seasons.

II. The dark uncanny

You flew down the staircase.

How dirt stains the carpet.
How there are too many linens.

They need a confession.

III. We are method

Your toe is a pencil.
It traces the hollow of reason.

Layers and layers
of heart beat and reason.

These are shadows.

Shadows are not method
and we are not echoes.
We lean toward the sun.

They ask us to be pleasure.

IV. Shaped and reshaped

What do they make
of our chorus.

We are translucent
and sorrow.

V. Somewhere in habit

You exhale. There are no syllables
caught in your teeth.

We are lonely. Your clock
is unwound. We eat the undercooked meat
that they serve us. It has delays.

You were avoiding the spoon
on your saucer. It is on your lips.
It is a measure of moments.

I cannot elaborate.
The saucer was only contrivance.

VI. A sort of coma

What do we void
if we count minute by minute
what is void

is retention. What do we count.

The minutes, the echoes.
Let me think.

They want me to think
in a chorus.

VII. Wildly mundane

About linens.

Their linens hang in a wardrobe
but the wardrobe is barren.
Its dimensions
are not what we hoped for.

Layers and layers
of footnotes and silage.

They want a confession.

They did not expect
the clock to be chiming.

The hours have been sprung
from its gears.
We do not comprehend

how they fold time into echoes.
We are submerged.

It is not what we hoped for.

VIII. Not a chorus

These tides

do not crest when the moon
falls from orbit.

They only sing softly

into night
for no reason.

We are not singing.

IX. A tin cup

This is an echo.

Every shade of intent
is a heart beat.

We are not method.
Not of syllables

and these
are not words.

We have seasons.

Having surpassed the time for comprehending the moment of concluding,
it is the moment for concluding the time for comprehending. Otherwise,
this time would lose its meaning.
–Jacques Lacan

they are aware
made intelligible, small town
objects

of the singular
mind in the hooded concrete
and the swept floors

the generic
workman bones, but with a feeling
of the timeless

fish-line

and a fine black thread
stone love stone

they appear
to emerge, talked for an hour
indignantly

with copies
of the absolute, talked
of the blank page

they recited
gathered and dismembered
clusters of ur-speech

and Hegel whispering
in their ears

spoke of the voiceless

value, attached to the surface
of a missing limb
they tried to disguise

on the threshold

credulous people

their blue-shirt
reputations
the brain-swinging

forest
in which they clump

measured by rightness
a world of sense
the pure form

of this conception
neither cognized

nor defineable

I. First Cycle

A bearded tongue.

II. Second Cycle

Accept it as it is.
A centered emptiness.

III. Third Cycle

A child was born.
A circular space.
A couple of nice outfits.

IV. Fourth Cycle

A defiled expression.
A disembodied head.
Aesthetic qualities.
A false terminology.
A few days later.

V. Fifth Cycle

A fierce warrior goddess.
After a minute passed.
After she fed the multitudes.
A gigantic metaphor.
A layer of wounds.
All our names were related.
Also occurring.
A lyricist and a composer.

VI. Sixth Cycle

A magnifying glass.
A minor aspect of her oeuvre.
A more complicated sense of being.
A mother who weeps.
An abandoned river bed.
An altered state.
An equal regard for connotation.
A new curling iron.
An extraordinary world.
A natural conclusion.

A new sign.
An image of the symbol.

An ink splotch.

VII. Seventh Cycle

An invariable pretense.
A normal conversation.
An ornamental fragment of a line.
Another shadow of language.
Any way that we can do it.
A paradigm of regeneration.
A pleased expression.
A puddle of tears.
A raging flood.
A reinvention.
A rule pronounced.
A second glance.
A series of statements.
A set of press-on nails.
A severe glare.
A side table.
A silhouette of two trees.
A small figure.
As previously determined.
A sweet-faced kid.
At first glance.

VIII. Eighth Cycle

A tongue lashing.
A vast field.
A vital link.
A younger sibling.
Baggage of the possibility.
Before the apocalypse.
Beneath a stone house.
Between the North Sea and the Alps.
Between us.
Beyond the perpendicular apex.
Blame it on his mother.
Borders that still exist.
Bright lights.
Broken beneath his feet.
Broken into sand.
But she loved him.
Carved wooden sandals.
Ceding the dilemma.
Characters in a play.
Clothes piled on the floor.
Clutching the window sill.
Coming to grips.
Compared to her dissociation.
Confronted directly.
Connecting to the stronghold.
Consistently insightful.
Contents of an hallucination.
Cutting into her hide.
Dead by means of silence.
Destructive power.
Deviations of the known.
Discovered in the role of a “center”.
Disjointed phrases.
Distress and disintegration.

IX. Ninth Cycle

Divided into three sections.
Double-crossed.
Do we like it.
Do you have a name.
Dreams and fantasies.
Dry arid land.
Ego blows.
End of the word.
Established as an intermediary.
Every day.

Everyone looks happy.
Evidence of the tongue clamp.
Exposed by a circular image.
Extremely pleasing.
Flashing your tiny nothings.
For a couple of minutes.
For an understandable relapse.
Form does not conform.
For the purpose of avoiding.
Four more mouths to feed.
Four years later he returned.
From his confusion.
From the essential function.
From time to time.
From where he was standing.
Full of loathing.
Gravestones raising questions.
Ground into mulch.
Haunted by multiple losses.
He asked.
He came back smiling.
He didn’t stay.
Held in place with nails.
He’ll be staring blindly.
Her father demanded something else.
Her mother would have wept.
He supported the family elsewhere.
He wasn’t one of them.
He wiped his nose.
His arms outstretched.
His major contribution.
His predominance.
His teeth gleaming.
His white knuckles.
Hit in the head by lightening.
How it all began.
How nervous she feels.
How they were beaten and starved.
Huddled in a constricted space.
Human faces filled with emotion.
Human stones.
Humdrum.
I bet you were happy.
If you ask other people.
I have no idea how long.
I let him hold the gun.
Implosion of form.
In a big tent.
In a fictional account.
In order to serve.
In silence.
Intense layers.
In the altered space.
In the doorway.
In the form of an apocalypse.
In the manner of a fractal.
In the newspaper.
In the rice fields.
In these moments.

In the very center of the circle.
Introspection.
In which it appears.
I stepped in it.
It called out.
It looked like trouble.
It makes a nice ornament.
It seems to hang very well.
It senses everything.
It serves as my work space.
Its impetus is to act.
It’s not itself.
It turned to blood.
It was an old joke.
It was a statement.
It was groaning.
It was growing weary.
I wasn’t there.
I won’t discuss the conflagration.
Just this once.

X. Tenth Cycle

Just this once.
Keeping up the charade.
Kind of like a repetition.

Languages with the same last name.
Largely unpopulated.
Larger-than-life.
Left to die.
Like a bird.
Listening to voices.
Look at the screen.
Man woman.
Menaced by psychosis.
Modeling her dream on a question.
My eyes, my eyes.
My feet crossed at the ankles.
My voice steady.
Networked and programmable.
No material.
Non-mimetic.
No reference except for myself.
Not associated.
Nothing like my counterpart.
Novelty of exposition.
Objects transformed.
Obscured by rain.
Odd phrases.
On a beach
Opportunities for growth.
Our clothes.
Our faces.
Our guns.
Our house is full of flies.
Our intention was not to please.
Our record of inscription.
Our shoulders were touching.
Out in the kitchen.
Outside the moment.
Over there.
Owners of the language.
Pale and deranged.
People inside our circle.
Perfect for something.
Poised as if dying.
Predominance of a specific value.
Process of searching.
Projective power.
Put it on the kitchen table.
Raised in small villages.
Read sequentially in the proper tense.
Replaces the outside world.
Scattered at our feet.
Senseless questions.
She fell instantly in love.
She felt no lightness of being.
She is ready.

She replied quietly.
She said it is going to swallow him.
She still hasn’t answered his question.
She wakes up extra early.
Shrinking and delinquent.
Sitting quietly on the floor.
Six months from the outside world.
Someone who frightens her.
Someone who is entirely different.
Sometimes in belief.
Sorting out all the tangents.
Space has become confused.
Stereotyped and inadequate.
Stiff from time .

Still fragrant and green.
Such as it is.
Such promise.
Supranational spaces.

Surrounded by a concrete fence.
Sweet grapes filled with healing.
Symbols of apotheosis.
Taller and also stronger.
Tapping at the windows.
Technology.
Thank you very much.
That’s how it goes.
The actual calling.
The beginning of the end.
The commotion over there.
The contract and the white spaces.
The dangling streets.
The door of their apartment.
The experience.
The first bombs.
The first cycle.
The first three paragraphs.
The fraying edge.
The function of a crippled dog.
The illusionist.
The invasion of comprehension.
The meaninglessness.
The mighty waves.
Then softly repeating.
The object of her love
The outside and the individual.
The poverty of frequency.
The power to preserve.
There are more than three distances.
The referential function.
There is nothing more to say.

The retractable lens.
There was nothing special about it.
The same expression.
The same people twice.
The temporal pause.
The tongue of nations.
The very desk.

The voice on the radio.
The whole damn surface.
The woman.
They are at a party.
They eloped.
They were living in Berlin.
They wondered.
Think of a time.
This is worth knowing.
This time is different from the other time.
This will not seem so negative.
This would imply he hasn’t understood.
Those who are hurting.
To codify.
To consume.
To damage property.
To destroy.
To feed the crowd.
To feel more involved.
Together at each lull.
Tongue of the belt.
Tooth wounds.
To show you how it feels.
To superimpose ourselves.
To the detriment of being.
To the expressed object.
To the left and right of vacancy.
To the observation.
To which everything is related.
To whip the child repeatedly.
Treated as an object.
Two lanes and a cell phone.

Coda

Three streams of thought: typography and reflection. Unceasingly developed. Understanding the individual movements. Undetectable moments. Very seriously. Visions of the center. Watching them die. We can’t understand anything. We deserved it. Weekdays and Sundays. We have been at it for aeons. We laughed repeatedly at every opportunity. We should be thankful. We spoke in his absence. We were shooting photos. What are you doing today. What did he say about the production. Whatever he meant by that I don’t know. What is behind the camera. What she called the calamity. What surprised you most. What they meant. When he pronounced his purpose. When he spoke coherently. When I drove to the shore. When time disambiguated. When we were still a bar code. When we tested for depth. When we were just being born. When you squinted. Which lasted for about an hour. Widespread approximations. With a cork screw. With frayed cuffs. Within its own realm. With jealous pleasure. Without confusing. Without fruit. Without knowing. With the genuine article .With the other stragglers. Woman man. Word as an object. Words relating to time. Yellow jogging shorts. Yet again. You opened up by chance. Your mouth is an eye. Your tongue is spatial. You don’t have time.

this liquid thing
from adhesion to adhesion
I made for you
feels undetermined
like the way you recline
at an autopsy
distasteful but true

not much is legal
a delicate hole
a sky made from glass
almost like tomorrow
owl cores & flint chips
signs so faint
the pond freezes over

what was it I found
that crushes mountains?

if we were gods
only twice
two lines in the snow
a stark light
an oddity unworshipped
secretly in cahoots
a replacement for / sequence
no matter what anyone says
in public, like this
renamed
from giant rock piles
& I’m thinking lump sums
beneath the cushions
if there’s an ocean
of theory &
diagnostics & linseed oil
my extraction

eventually someone found it
double double double
(one of us wept there)
as true as Gogol’s name
years passed
just behind his teeth
a werewolf in Moscow
drinking from an inappropriate
silver tankard, no doubt

on account of the weather

it has to do with the sea
these rumors
the troubles to come
I’ve seen things
if you’re in the mood
the sky is getting heavier
with burlap & feathers
the jiggling proletariat
filleted & full of questions

since then I got better
like the reason behind the circumstances

a delicate aroma
wearing a towel
under the couch cushion
the movements / of our feet
the rest of us in the same boat
playing dead
a still life
for which we apologized
& flattered your long, slender legs
standing there on the back step
a laced nostalgia
with no scars or sackcloth
no poems or assets
for speaking lies to power
what does it mean?

not where but how & later
lazy, dripping
wrapped in fly paper
so careless about returning
a bumper crop
too heavy for grief

even though there was no policy
the ocean the ocean
why are you lingering in a churchyard
leaving cities
to your friends fed to fishes

somewhere

in the middle
uprooted, in haste

fuels of unhappiness

lit up
in the mouth
& brain
a yellow moon
a few pieces of pumpkin
the scent of smoke
narrowed eyes

it was no big secret
shirt tails tucked out
on a trail marked with garbage
tall buildings
our fortunes & our sacred
pea brains / cheap plastic
except of course
when I look back from my counting
to the field full of cats
on the projector screen
unassailable

I am waiting to discover

soup in a fishbowl
a fresh ballot
a welcome mat
of waste & of waste’s god
moving parts

but they don’t mix
sexophone orange lace flannel
that follows you
to reunite
in the bathroom
through the turnstile
the mover said
over there
leaving no trail
behind / in the watershed

it’s the moment that we’re living
with distinction
the wrong kind of dirt
too many cars
“saints”
shit & a feeling
of wide open speciousness

a wordless / dawn
plunges
into a fishy host

their lips in chorus
across the watery plain

eyeing
two pennies
the everlasting dyad

the jumbotron
of strange commitments

on my hands
& knees
a languid fix, the future

i am more or less susceptible
a nice little locality
science fiction
the load reduced
a handshake
a formal note
cognitive dissonance
the last of the bread crumbs
a more rigid form of reprobation
but that’s a whole different story

an erotic compulsion
a prolonged moistening
beautifully expressed
crawling up walls
mad, androgynous, ecstatic
musical symbolism and mathematics
the brain chemists
the familiar strutting posture
the Land rumbling
the microcosms and the macrocosms
the myth of invariance
the option of multiple fates
through word of mouth
transparent and non-existent

In the midst of space
and banners is a littered waste
that yields more pointing
than parsing–so much has passed
that an account of intervals
(a promise, a perspectiveless
taste) measures meaning (a sacred,
a whole sacred as less whole) and so,
in the midst of lunch and logistics
and yesterday’s paper, and more news
buried, and a belatedly unfurnished
reaction to the blemished
brains of big science
on the back page, there is no
account of the dim wondering
what our position is now.

“Then the sight of you
this morning, in the light, sometimes
the interval …”

He hopes to avoid Leon on his way to the elevator. Just past the open door
of the fileroom, on the wall of the mid-office corridor, he sees a shadow
approaching. He ducks into the fileroom and bumps into the tail end
of Alexandra Kollontai, the new receptionist. She’s bent over, digging through
an open cabinet, but turns and smiles at Joe as he shuts the door. “You’re
in a hurry, huh?” she says, stretching out her hand, “We haven’t met yet.
I’m Alex.” Joe is taken aback. She’s gorgeous. He doesn’t know what to say,
so he puts his finger to his lips and motions at the door with his eyes.
Widening her own, she shapes her mouth into an “oh” and reaches
for the light switch. The room goes black. Joe forgets about Leon. “Who
is this woman?” he thinks, sniffing at the scent of her perfume. Suddenly,
footsteps come to a stop outside the fileroom door and he hears a voice.
“Fucking bitch,” Leon says, “I asked for that file two hours ago. I think
she’s avoiding me.” Another voice replies, “You think she’s going to put out
for you?” then laughs derisively. It’s the district manager. Joe had a run-in
with him yesterday and couldn’t wait until he went back to corporate. “What
an asshole,” he hisses, not fully cognizant of the situation. Alex touches his
wrist lightly, startling him, and whispers, “Shhh.” Joe can feel her breath
on his neck as she silences him. “Who is this woman?” he thinks again,
picturing her face in his mind. “She’ll put out,” Leon laughs from the other side
of the door, “or I’ll put her out. But right now, I need that file. Karl’s coming
by at two and he’s really pissed off.” At the mention of Karl’s name, Joe
feels the fileroom grow darker, more vulnerable. He gently gropes
the doorknob for a lock mechanism, but can’t find one. “Shit,” he thinks,
“there’s no way I was going to sign off on that audit. I couldn’t.” He forgets
about the woman standing beside him in the dark, and listens to Leon
as he says, “If Joe didn’t keep his nose so clean, I’d be putting him out too.
Business is business.” Replying curtly, the district manager snorts, “Citizen
Joe. I told you to get rid of that asshole. We wanted this deal finalized last
week, and he fucked it all up.” Joe bristles. If business means covering up
for men like Karl, he’s in the wrong business. He feels Alex touch him again,
this time on the shoulder. Does she know they’re talking about him?
He swallows nervously. Does she know he’s married, that he has kids? Joe
can’t think straight. “Look,” he hears the manager say, “get something
on Joe and nail his ass to the wall, make him miserable. We’ll take Karl out
for drinks and settle things down, maybe invite that new receptionist
of yours. We can teach her a thing or two about perks, eh?” They both laugh.
“Okay,” Leon says, “but let me get that file first. There’s a skeleton
in there I need to bury.”

When in heaven they said Hell. Was it hell for them.
Once they said Oyster.
We countered with Foie Gras Mousse.
Can you smile for appearance sake.
Are we dignified and merry.
Have they the proper understanding.
“Ascending pure, the bell-like fame.”
Our place in life.
Who wields the shovel
And who does not.
We speak at great length about weather.
Smile politely over Cocktails.
And we swallow.

Except for faces and hands, there is no surface
that defines our mutual convergence.

“Your blue is clear / as on the first day.
In your presence I am a man …”

She stared at the sky, asking herself, “How much poetry
will a man use, like a dog, sniffing at crust?”

I replied, “For the answer to become clear,
we simply need to ask.”

“But your grandfather and grandmother gradually
forgot. Your relatives all forgot.”

She thought breeding education should accompany
the general education: “Oh, I’m an average breeder.”

“The ram leaped / and the seal
disported on small rocks …”

She shrieked. The water was thigh deep
and freezing. Our bodies were finally cooling.

After a day and a night, we left / the island
and walked back into the village.

We were out of food, but food had become
like distance and time.

one tooth missing
when she smiles –
another morning

***

naked and drunk
on a flop house bed –
happy for the bed

***

the feel of you
our bodies sloshing together
in a filthy room

***

filled with blood
and the screaming outside
my throbbing temples

***

watching from behind
her thin black heels
the slamming door

***

a furious screech
hanging in the smoke –
she always comes back

***

empty bottles
crashing to the floor –
a telephone ringing

***

not your fault?
whose fault?
my fault?

***

it’s not death
that worries me
it’s his wife

***

an urge to scream –
when God created me
he created me

***

alone at nightfall
hours and hours of love
casting shadows

***

the way cats walk
weaving between bottles
sniffing at stains

***

like men who’d kill
because they’re crazy
and its the law

***

in a crowded bar
I’m drinking alone tonight
and feeling lucky