I think,
what you should keep in mind
is the thrusting
pulsation, my
veiny
body parts
do.

My heart and
others'
stop
to feel
the coursing
flow.

You don't.

But you should.

Wait for breath;
catch it and,

yes,
use it
to pull out
every ounce
of air
that seeps
from lungs
and touches
on your hollow throat.

Let it vibrate
through your empty
self, into
the
sounds,
which form
my name.

"Wo es war,
da soll ICH
werden."
--
The self is manifest in the signifier.

Please don’t mind
my interpretation
of your fixation
on Others'
words to a
page.

Wires holding
limbs holding
folders holding
papers holding
words holding
contrived
meaning
tell me something
about the way
we see each other.
I need to know
if you want to hear
the tuition I paid
speak,
because I don’t
need to be tested
daily
for my ability
to read
when the message
you are sending me
has one real-world
application.

That application is submission.

We can't all be teachers
and you are mostly
spineless cowards
with no weapons
but breath
removed from heaving chests
of those who died
thinking
those thoughts
you systematically
rehearse.

I need you
to combat dreams
I can’t control;
to keep me warm
in-between
seasons and days.
You help me see.
I’m not addicted.
I just have high ex-
pectations for my mind.
The connections
you fasten;
the faltering awareness
you calm and persuade
to remain.
I do want you here,
boiling with the pressure
of my stomach
like the worries which
brought you into me
from a cup
poured by my hand,
shaking.
While you were emptied,
I smiled, and thought of
the focus I’m gaining.
Please disperse yourself
throughout my body.
And tell the thoughts you bring
along with you to
leave me in peace
with my imaginings.

(...)
It is perhaps this association between birth and beginning each school year which led me to respect knowledge. The entire month of August tends to fly by, unnoticed, in anticipation of the day I see children forced back into ill-ventilated buildings to emulsify themselves in education, for knowledge. Knowledge, that Moloch of an idea! Hobbies, interests and Summertime activities were heaped on flaming tongues with words in order to illustrate their ultimate insignificance. We hoped to bring out the blessing of wisdom from its mouth. “What matters is the coming Winter, not the frivolous activities of undisciplined youths.” It is as if the leaves of every tree were humanity's hair, and August had pulled back every strand to blow the woodsy breath of Autumn smoke into life’s ear. "You won't be this way forever." I am yet seduced by Fall’s cryptic murmurings and led to believe in endless, Halcyon flight. With arms draped around us from behind, knowledge draws me into oblivion, with unlabeled memories and I throw my desires into Moloch’s mouth. Now that I am burning, my self is the voice of this demigod. My birth certificate is my body, holding a memory to be inscribed on some later form beside some other numbers. Life has only so many Decembers.
(...)

you appear to be real
when you really appear
then I look in your eyes
but you’re not living there
I hold out my hand
and I cling to cool air
I grasp with my mind
a subtle despair
and I glance toward the sunset
at least once a year
to see where you're hiding
because it is you
whom I unfathomably
fear

I hold in my hand a paper
It is blank, and dark
And shaped like a Sony voice recorder.

I tell it “I always wondered
when entering leaves
and leaving comes in—
where we go when we
begin,
and who says it’s over”


The little black box catches all of my thoughts
and stares blankly ahead
waiting for more.

“Why do we think it matters
that we suffer alone?
Beaches
cliffs
and valleys,
erode time and Other
forces.

Unread letters
dissent
to their homology
of patted matter
and solitary discomfort under
gravity.

Solace in solitude is wonderful.

Only I feel the weight of Earth’s atmosphere
in the sound of a dialtone—remember that?

Yes, the other side of the conversation
waits for connection—but you must choose
the coordinates.”

Hawaii is volcano islands,
but
Rock and sand
Air and breeze
Prairie and trees—
this is the Midwest.


I’m going to sit down
and envelop myself.

When I am done
The poem will have delivered me
to a place in the grass of a prairie
a cave on the side of a cliff
a beach it pebbles for sand
and a steep descent from the
volcano.

When this poem
is read with gathering perspiration
it will cool the still-flowing
lava of Hawaiian islands,
soften the edge
of each pebble;
this poem will hang a cloth in the opening
of mouths
caving in
to protect the traveler
from his shadow.

If you do not hear this poem
of the Earth escaping itself,
trees fighting their way into
its soil,
rocks being worn away to grains
of sand sifting through our fingers
and clouds taking moisture
to a more deserving place,
let the consolation be
a life
full of prosperity
and feigned kindness--
ready-mades,
hollow handshakes,
doors beaten
by little hands
asking about breakfast
on a Saturday
and
selling thin mints
to your neighbors.

I love you, sisters and brothers,
just weather our sod
and air
and water
and fire

--it will find you
when it is ready.

I swilled pupils behind your glass               Then sighed into the telephone.
                                                      ­      (…)
reflections of me peering out.                     /Against each felled bough
The sneering nose,                                       /blooms indignity
supports a wire                                             /swelling like vineyards
framing your visions.                                 /over sultry horizons;
Beneath                                                        /I float and stare
a satin camisole                                        /at equanimity
connected to me                                      /vanishing in undue time,
below the belly. This was our ship     /like my young grapes
taking on                                                 /dripped on your bodice
water.                                                    ­ /while you drank with no conscience.