Thursday, July 07, 2005


Perhaps I exist to ruin
Objectivity, to dull
The shears that this insular

Art becomes, our proclivities
Mingling in the mangling
Street, since I moved to New York

I have not stopped
Sneezing, though I did pause
In writing this poem

To hunt down a frightening
Silverfish who undulatingly flew
Across the keys, even

If it never sleeps
It does awaken and one peculiar
Moment you find yourself

In the unfriendly grip
Of the octopus so
Is it in vain that I hope

To be less of a stranger
To you while at the same time trying
To avoid the disgrace of being

Well known, the city is
Harmonious mass, an Amazon
Of commerce, even

If it is the harmony of overwhelming
And collective murder, I had expected to lose
My virginity to my babysitter

At the age of twelve, Breton
Wished to keep the book
Ajar, the song says I can’t be held

Accountable for the things
That I’ve seen, but I refuse to
Deny the refuse

Of our lives the warmth
Of witness, I will not submit
Myself to loopholes

In recursion, the only phone
Call I got all
Day was a wrong

Number, yet that also
Has not stopped
Me from feeling a consequent

Note amongst many, kind
Words are no less
Instructive and I’m off

To the zoo for salutations
To the wallaby I call
Bushwick Bill, also to look in

On a deteriorating letter
I’ve stuck between the wires
Of a fence running

Along the ravine, all my
Life I’ve dreamt
I was able to see translucent

Arrows making up the air and thought
It feasible to spend
An afternoon not breathing

But when I stop
To remind myself of the way you
Smell when we’re lying

In bed I know it
Would be a terrible waste
Not unlike the beauty

Of insects, this apparitional
Night, this soft, silly
Music that has become more

Meaningful than I could imagine.

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