Not that what
is is
not actual, these odd
bodies garbed in the accident
of space and one
can’t pay it too much
homage, hernia
throbbing, uncodified
as the moon is silent when you’re not
looking at the beach
We, who may
fight as bravely for slavery
as for safety, the sun
crashing between the train
cars like a drug
firing in the brain, a man
sneezes onto the book
because he can’t
take his hands away
from it, a girl
somnambulantly
drags a cord of hair so
it no longer curtains her
shyly evading
eyes, a soldier
elsewhere steps over
the leaking resemblance of
a torso and a course
is determined to prolong
such images
2
One falls into all
the confusions of an equivocal
language, the body moves
eye disappears
without preparing
We perceive that which
exceeds us, sparrows
congregate on
the clothesline, our arms
grasp each other’s backs and our stomachs
bulge to touch
one another at the point
of their turning
inward
From you I see a desert
which holds everyone
in their inconceivable lateness
Brooklyn here
But myself
Remembering the skeleton
of a two-headed calf
named Spider, the crowd fevered
with visitations, the clouds lured
with infantile pinks, hues
tricking us into volume
3
Holland, 1945, fuzz heavy
as the dead
bulb shivers into a bloom
of eccentric shards
I’m asking you
to accompany me
through the deformations
and into ourselves
I’m asking you
if it is possible
to refuse
to go blind
Outside there is a marathon and marathons
always make me cry, a man
For whom the divers tones
Of a mental life meld
At once
Does infinite movement lead us
to attempt to equal
instantaneity?
Do verbs only betray
the impossibility
of not acting?
4
So much in my life happens
that’s not poetry
these days, the black-eyed
woman who in the middle of her
rant quieted
to whisper god
bless you in the direction
of pinstripes, the drugged-out
glare of the boy
embarrassed by
his grasp of fractions and yet
his laughter is impressive
the kangaroos in the park leaning suspiciously
on their tails, the heart
of a mouse stretched like a ribbon
across the curb as certain
small mysteries continue
to animate the instant
This morning I dreamt I
was purchased
by a large, wealthy Italian
family to “fix”
their youngest daughter
who spoke only
in tongues and woke
to the hydraulics
of the 75 bus picking
up strangers outside the movie theatre
There is nothing arbitrary about this
5
Chinese men stand
on my foot on
the way to Manhattan, the hair
from my armpits pinching
in my t-shirt, to be blind
each day is a senseless response
Is there responsibility without
judgment, without
prohibition?
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