A sense of near total immanence
*
This small solid collection of tissue, a botany
As a small mass of rounded or irregular shape, does
As a small abnormal knobby bodily protuberance, would
As a tumorous growth or a calcification is palpable (can be felt)
In the skin of patients will tell you
Buildings cut open, here they were
That index, too
*
Everything into the mouth
Icy Hot Recall
Lines written with friends
I mean, really
I want to eat everything ?
Apparently so
With friendly accompaniment
Quick everything quick
Nothing
Doesn’t go into
All the air in the mouth couldn’t
All the poems, hair.doc, china.doc
Eating at the index of lowness
Really shoving it in
Pieces drop from the corner lip
Should be so lucky
Set in a scene in California
Table for four or six
Glasses, glass, reflective coating
Always being made an example of this window we’re standing in front of
The period’s problems
Done with pointing towards their arrival
Disparate, non-matching ‘eclectic’
Sense of total separation
Sense of near-total immanence
*
The most alive of all things is eating an egg
Eating two eggs
On a dead piece of toast
*
In short, these panties
Inexpensive, poorly pressed into shape
Neoliberal free trade panties
I can’t cease
Speaking of desire for a word that doesn’t even belong to me
In poetry—a word I don’t own
This resemblance to the cotton I’m inside of
Victor: she didn’t belong to you
The point is what the other character said
Nobody’s way of being lit-up between
Two slabs of time
Belongs to the person who thinks so
They didn’t say that
They said nobody’s life
In particular his, wrongly imprisoned
How can we start to think in this space
Of such range
Of not-belonging
I mean against ownership
Things one doesn’t own
When one can’t
Get your head right
When in the time of rats and mice
Of rats and possums
Attributable sound
That in the wall of longing for fabric
Spoken of in public
A trip to the shop for cheap panties
This dead longing
3-4 years of getting
Nothing done
*
Whistles through the gap between some front teeth
Or against the gums
The violence isn’t all around
It’s in me
A human index
A lack of knowledge
Someone find the
Here we are again
Here we go
Someone find
And show him
*
Wretched is a word it remembers suddenly
*
I think I have parsed it
But I have not become nothing
An empty iteration in the soap drama of all this fear
Toothsome waiting
Basically chocolate milk
The parcels it seemed to be making
Something we knew
Clung to the sides of the ship
*
I’m making a system for being alone with it
*
Index of failure, of human failure
Filter of index of human failure
One doesn’t set out to be
During this time I vow under the pressures to be with
Pounds per square inch per capita impact
Flooding the
Yet no kids, just a kind of intense presence
What Anne Boyer calls heroic composition
Extremity of duration under various influences
Paranoia, sore throat, networked communication
All the time remember gathering worms and leaves from between burgundy lava rocks
under the aspen trees
Doesn’t belong
Doesn’t belong to you
*
I want to experience myself in this way
The subject as she is observed
An analogue of the facsimile produced
As a city, from above
As seen by the space planner, urbanist, city planner or cartographer
A theoretical simulacrum
A picture, whose condition of possibility is an oblivion and a misunderstanding of
practices
, like that
You’ve got to be kidding
“the voyeur-god created by this fiction, who, like Schreber’s God, knows only cadavers”
Yes that one
*
I hang a navy and purple sweater vest on a hanger over a white button-up shirt
Suspended from the front curtain rod where it can be observed from the prospective of a
yellow kitchen
The sweater cinched at the waist
The white button-up shirt with a decorative white stitch along the collar and cuffs, pink
ribbon inside the collar
Mass artisinal, as if anthropologie, with many buttons up the sleeve
Hang a short strand of pearls around the neck of the hanger, a long gold chain
A pendant suspended on the chain, a scene from England or France depicted there, a
woman and man
I don’t know, they’re not wearing wigs, the sleeves are mutton-ish
I think he is placing a necklace around her neck
Maybe he is a woman
Later I add a Saint Christopher medal to the same chain and stand back to observe
Holly Golightly
Ringo Starr
Christian Bale
Jessica Alba, when she travels
The Knight’s Yeoman
Veronica Mars
Seabiscuit
James Stewart as Charles Lindbergh
Many icon brand motorcycle jackets
*
Filter: I meant what doesn’t get through the mesh
The mesh itself
Underthings
I got it wrong
Ariana Reines, what she writes about the book as organ
Like that
But now the sound of a chlorinated pool is in this poem
Shaped like a kidney bean and other poems
The glunk of its motor
A kidney bean is shaped like a kidney
Leaves trapped in the filter
By filter I didn’t mean leave the leaves out
That is all I have to show for myself
They are
*
A person is just trying to get by and it shows
You mean the one and a half jobs
Oh we’re back there again, the lack
Time and training
About getting by
On the 1.5
Ounces
Cartons
*
I wanted to make some things
Visible to push things
Through the door
From one room to the next
I wanted membranes
I wanted to witness some things
Passing and pushing their faces
Against the membrane
The bio-film
The structured community of microorganisms
Encapsulated within a self-developed polymeric matrix
And adherent to a living or inert surface
The dish of it
The dishing
Bioflavanoids, too
And those were that
And those were this,
I am totally insistent
Little drawers of a cabinet
The punched cards that don’t come
As they are supposed to
Rolling along on wheels for instance
I don’t recall Jack Nicholson as easily as I should
When struggling to call up
Five Easy Pieces
To list in a comment box
To list, to the side
I wanted to clean the bathroom and did
Not come to any conclusions
I couldn’t think about
Or even look at those
Early sorry, sad and sorry
Attempts, I attempted to
Walk away wholesale from
The whole stinky venture
What do you call it
“I don’t recall”
Is a big lie
Lie of the community
That’s a lie, too
What’s true is I feel
Flayed, like Bobby Flay’s
Last name, burnt and grilled
And grilling meat before
You eat you lacerate
The food, right? Masticate it
Later, I wanted to
Want, I wanted
*
Nothing, though I walk,
Yea though I do
Through the shadow of yellow files
Miss you terribly
2006
