words   what   more  than  silence,    criminal
    shaded    meanings   plump like   the  mien  of   a night-strewn    beast.

words   what    more   than   sounding for   it
  the   night   hemming   into,   less  than   a fugitive   by definition

   words   do   I   deny   the   static  of   soul    when   quiet then
          places      the    cholera   in    our  abdomens ?

to   say   when   the   nature  of   the tangent   is   a   voyage
     of   the   story   you’re  telling,    masked   behind  a non-sequitur


  that     does   not   intersect   elsewhere   issued   by
     a   lack.     where    else   are   we   only   slightly   connected

                       when    we    move     to   break   a   point,   or  to   distract

a   face     once   again   foreign, your   name   emerging   as   whimper.
       coming    out   denied.

   words   what   more   than    revenge,    your   sound   less   than an alternative
            bandwidth    confusing      its     meaning

coming     out    undisguised.

Tangential   is  this  dispersal
  of  things.

Greased   like    chain
slipping  from   the   curve
of  the neck

it   is
mundane   that hands
  have no   sense   of control
and  abandon
  is kin

as in  a   home
  furniture is   desolation
made absolute   by
  a   visitation.

better   it  is to
know   the finest   day
  is  only  death  in the  afternoon
like   piecemeal metamorphosis.

Nothing  like
this     oblivious  day.

It is     dawn again in the periphery.
   Slowly beings a rehearsal.

A furious want only brought
the tint of the sky down to its last trinket.
Glides over air – resigns under dissonant skies.
First angle: tiptoe. I admire your machines.
   Second: a song for no one to hear but your presence
          my adulation sings with.
   You are a farewell for no one.

The cotillion undone under pirouette of Suns.
Music still for the mouth to bloom,
awakened at the edge of the world
that tastes nothing like metal.

Housed in reliquary assumed by the hands,
   committed to duty:
  contain the coryphée – body revolving, breath held to count,
  how many days expire to bring

back    the  black of   night.

Death among other deaths as the hour becomes moist
   by the rage of oncoming minutes. The scent of rain lingering
   everywhere – here from the end of the most sullen sight
   flaying the document.

This among the cheapest of things – to find the beauty
   gone in all things. I am reduced to turning moments
to body parts – people to signals, currents, beacons;

        you   are  the  arms  pressed   within   monuments.
eyes   crushed   in  glare   this very catatonic     second
      in   flash   gone,  whoever    lies   in  the  parking lot   with me
         the feet   that have gone     missing.

    name-recall passes as clearing. Close protocols
     to   guard a well-oiled machine
         beheading the avenue.    This anomaly

   is the common thing within stains   trading
         cleanliness among     fabrics we  are cut  from   the
      same      origin: now    let    rain.

Pale, divine light clothing
a hundred people laying like carcass –

a thick fist of people
   punching into the system of failure,

unrelieved, dismayed. Faced with
  downfall, tracing point A to B without

any other in tow but luggage,
  they annulled the flight so we pull

an escape when it rained – it taught us
where to hide, where to run,
what to do when we are soaked in sound
of rain pummeling the rooftop,
what warmth to share

on a bed meant for two with
  only one     dent.

I.

I trace you against
the skull
with the old photograph of

age 8 and 7

aloft and angling down some stage, or performance

in
this perforated dome I call home

trace you against
the map impaled to the wall
and locate you amongst the
geographies and heed
its brash distance

shake out its potency
like how my grandfather murders
the brief matchlight

I trace the trajectory
will not pivot to return
or scope rescue

none like this force,
the insufficiency of maps,
the harsh terror of adoration when
like a fruit ripened

will fall to the hand waiting
underneath

II.

    Propel me to where it counts

into the masses transit-worn,

shorn out of the flyblown-dry in amazement
or immense performance of breaking

outside the window
when it rains forever

to Icarus in his blunder,

from the dilated pupil of my father while
   watching television

from point-break of time
  and sense when nothing made one kind word
as salvation

out of the tangle of clouds,
    the skytilt angle where heaven might topple
at one point to scatter my reckoning of a god

from your place of interval

III.

space – where you will it,
when the night shining in,

          far are the noctilucent skies
  place me in the soft ease of beds when
   burial is ideal

make me ****** than light at first glance
    or water upon initial drop

and then in space, where you will it,
    promise-tender, drunk in shy altitudes,

this most biddable machine will spread to make way
    for weight giving in

to assume so small a drop of the pin in the ocean
   or to cannonball – fitting  chamber of a gun,
  
swimming in a mess of no restrictions,
  prepared, contained to carve deep

in the night writhing in with him
  with no need of hands to break point.

At noontime, it is severed,
just like in any other time. The walls no longer flounder but
                        crucify the ground or vice versa. Sunlight floods
   bodies of rocks. At the height of illumination, there is no process
   adequate to describe. The bramble of illusions swerves to allure.
   Drunk in the surprise of the founding: the rusting roof from the nearby
   school still there. Solid as entity, fluid as trance. Deep with the phantom
   pain of it, I feel its drone marauding with even-inflicted sharpness of memory.

This is how far you’ve already gone, towards the invisible charm of falling apart.
   There is an opening that is left behind. I found it here,
   in the chasms suspended in an open field drawn together
   in the alternative. This is all that you’ve ever lost.
  Reclamation is a sure defeat. Retreat, you said but didn’t.
   Straining towards this ruined object.

    This will not wait you out. It casts its weight over my hands
   struggling to take picture of, imperiled as if these unsolicited quakes contain
        the image within a broken frame. Strife deep within a sense of responsibility
  is to show you what was left – everything but wasted origin, demeaned by
                             the disintegration of, to suffer the penalty of decision.

To face the wall than each other, revealed in some place known.
                                      All the junk of this requiem reused as deficiency.
   Elsewhere it could be another thing, but to me nothing but a net
   to falling, limbless creature, or a basin to the water of surrender.
  It aspires to be something, to be another story of, to be a room of disappearance
    is what it is to me – across the kitchen sink mapped out near the cupboard,
     or the tiny, mincing steps to your room, the posters scattered everywhere like
   avatars. The partitions still exist dividing real from illusory, far from near,
     a luminescence or opacity – still dragging along the detritus, strophe by strophe,
                     rearing the intensity of artifacts but none found.

How does this breathe with no life? How do these ghosts ambulate
      in the bare and naked space when horrors wish to be unseen? How this wishes to be
  unperturbed in media res, and how it dissolves to be now, infinite, is substantial
                to tragedy. To be consoled by nothing but the pure sight of a once dwelling.

Hang a picture of you in the wall. The wall the bears no foundation. This recall.