"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...

"conjoined in the splinter"

a good
Movie stretches endlessly

In every place that it was and walking
Through the halo of one
Room into another involves

Changing your life so
Get over it, vanity
Is an atavism of unloving

Lords and yea
That I would be released
From the heavy triumph

Of reactive forces, let
Me be blunt, I refuse
The suicide that

Is not possessed
By revelry, which is why I
Have asked you here

Beside me, to watch ashes
As they catch on
The leaves of the date

Trees beneath the fire
Escape and thus
Will we terrify the modern

With our calm and truck
No myopia, for we
See how a window can look

Simultaneously into
And onto, how voices transmute
The blank room

Into a cathedral, a cathedral
Which nonetheless opens backwards
When the voices reverse

Into snaps and steam
Fortuitously ascends 54th Street
On the bare stems

Of godforsaken city
Flora, let me say
This plainly, I want you

Not to listen
To what I
Say, but rather

What I’m trying
To say, you
See, it is one thing

To know and another
To love and each thought
Should be like shrapnel

Wanting only
To embed itself, this
Is how the image

Of a pigeon turning
In lascivious circles burns
Into the lid’s

Back, he is on the edge
Of the roof and so
Now are you, when I write

About the dislocations
Of astonishment
I want for us all to be conjoined

In the splinter of it, love
Should not be
Malady, just as a song

Should not throttle
Into harangue by an otherwise
Preoccupied voice, my

Livelihood rests
In the miniatures made
By listening, at night

I turn
My iterations
Into a beast

That haunts unassuming
Sleepers, I used to
Wake in a red cascade

Of screams as the villagers
Fled, but I have since
Learned to control the sound

My dull fur makes
Disintegrating
Into scratches of rain

"a latent choreography"

I refuse
To discriminate

Between different modes
Of knowing plainly knowing
As I do knowledge’s

Inadequacy, night in its lucidity
Floats unnoticed and
Sunlight returns to shout

Through the leaves, if I
Suffer I suffer only
From the abundances and find

That it is necessary
To disperse
The universe, for

Instance this morning
There was a mouse’s heart
Pulled anchor-like

From its belly to stretch
Across two cigarette butts trimming
The curb and I heard

A man singing down
The street just like he was
Singing down

The moon, I can’t separate
What sounds
Unreal from that

Which becomes that
Way through the
Telling of it, life always

Struggles with another kind of
Life and I am no longer
Interested in denying what I

Am not as every
Throw of the dice is finally
A winner, the afternoon

Drags saturnine in
Its blue, the guitar is interrogating
New love in its cheap black

Coffin and I perceive
The salutatory tones of the poet
Saying Welcome

Overboard dear
Friend for
Today the cemetery

Will unveil its public
Art and today
The silent plurality

Of senses event themselves
Unkempt within
The lining of winter’s

Unexpected quarter
And today I will walk frankly
Bestride the stoop-strewn

Brick with each chance
Furthering my enchantment
At life like

The woman on
The subway who looked exactly
Like a woman and yet

Also very much like
A cat, a fact
Which I found attractive

And worrisome simultaneously
As a man in cargo
Pants beckoned Zion arise and trim

Your beards, you see disequilibrium
Does not merely implicate
Systems, but mines into the fiction of all

Sullenly orbitless selves for
Even together two stomachs are not too
Much for thinking, you make tea

And it enters
Parts of you you never
Touch, a center

Is only a wish in the same
Way belief is only a placeholder
Amidst the poorer

Ideas, these idiot
Winds whirling
Without cease as I am living

A classically prenuptial
Life, I hope, lacking
Envy, the song says God

Bless those pretty women I wish
They were mine and it is
Not possible to pay too

Much homage
To space, the form of the
Body being a latent

Choreography of everything
A body does, a good
Movie stretches endlessly

In every place that it was and I think
There is no little connection

The Last Post was #100

Any suckers out there want to publish a ms?

"the anger of wanting less"

The hum of the desktop or

The thought that if I was
A character on
A sitcom I’d want to

Be named Chris, would gleefully secret
Your name into the second
Season unknown, because as soon

As one arrives at the idea
Of God, everything
Changes, the docent confessed

She couldn’t speak
Finland, Richard Tuttle
Embraced purposeful

Failure, the stripper
At the titty bar said I didn’t look
Like a poet and I made it

To the airport without
Throwing up, it was then that
I realized I would never die

Simply to come back
New, to know
The ugliness of wishing all

The same things in different
Ways, we must all
Make up the necessary

Will to insist on grace from time
To time, to shirk
The furrowed instructions

Of the calendar and blow
Noisily through the anger of wanting
Less, I see the way we

Wane without
Impertinence, grow slight
In our retiring, today

I saw every blood
Vessel inside
A dead human and was

Wrenched by the beauty
Of it, a constellation
Of tremulous antlers crowded

By economy, one
Can confirm
An ideal correspondence

Or ponder the slew
Of schoolchildren pawing one
Another into squeals as

The 6
Approaches, I refuse
To discriminate

Between different modes
Of knowing, knowing as I
Do the breadth

Of such inadequacy