"drawbacks to self-immolation"

thus I steal

With relaxed muscles
And allow each miniscule parcel
To pierce me with the thrill

Of its transference, still yet
I weary at the way glut becomes
Need, like I said I

Suffer from abundances
And my fingers turn arctic
Under the torching

Scald of intemperate spouts
If I confide my will
To become a being other

Than human I hope
You will not
Call me a science

Fictionist and should it
Dance otherwise
Let’s concede the use

Of loosing this
Impeding sleeve, my friends
I have felt the necessity

For a chorus, for
Choreographies in opposition
To stillness or oneness

Though it is said that
Loneliness is indispensable
I would have it

Dispersed in the manner
Of the old woman
Sitting across from me

On the train, she did nothing
But nod and it dawned
On me that dance might solely

Consist in the affirmation
Of sharing gestures
The man at the diner said I used

To like everything
A little weak and I knew just
What he meant, feeling

Differently all
The time, gorging one
Landscape only

To shoot through
A tear in the veneer, convening
Momentarily, like the voice

Inside you verging
Into a sound
Becoming out, if we are no more

Than silhouettes thank
God we can
Be bigger than poetry, by god

I of course
Mean air
Resorting to wind

And so I am content
To drown loudly in the play
Of sense and event

Each hour
Makes of the street’s
Turbulent world

There are cooers
On your roof this very
Instant, cases

Of transubstantiation verily
Persist, I would like to
Let truth conform to music if it

Only existed, but as it is
I weary of watching
The windows for fear

Of a stray bird thoughtlessly
Murdering itself
In the clarity of my panes

And as for music
Conforming to truth, I offer
Only a disproof launched

In the clandestine nautical
Carnality of vowels, a Tanzanian
Man tells me there

Is death on the shores
Of the lake through the particles
On the face of the screen

And my body moves
Attention, eye
Disappearing into a cavern

Of vacant nerve for tonight
We ponder drawbacks
To self-immolation and my sister

Will write delirious
Tracts about it, if we are not mice
Nor are we cats and even

The cats have ceased
To be more
Than simulacrum

Protecting virtual yarn, an obsessive
Hastening of vital spirits for
We remain transfixed by nodes

Of the unanswerable, we
Likewise ignore
The melancholy constellation

Of objects lacking
Care, the scalded rocking
Chair still beside

The radiator’s impotent
Whistle, not unlike the one promised
Mose in The Searchers and whoever

Thinks we surrendered
The hallucinatory satisfaction
Of our wishes has

No lived into this
Century, not
Believed in the ciphers

Of desire unheeded and the overdetermination
Of the blank page, forgiveness
Is a movement, a becoming transfer

Of ferocious thought for
When the Catfish
Is in Bloom these precious

Phantasms of love desist
And systems of the immediate
Future take over as

Too often we
Resist the admission
Of instantaneity

Cords of winding
Musculature maneuvering
In a way that defies

Narrative, not to
Mention the blood under
That, not to mention

The compositions of that
Blood, the whole
Thing coursing in unforeseen

Torsions of space, mind
Fighting to keep
Up...