The Body and its Vicissitudes: And what is Borne outside of (my) Praise, always Objects here: And I am Reeling down the Face’s Canvas and running Head-Long towards the Beating of your Heart. The Raider as Oath, as Engine: its Myth made
Common by Repetition. And maybe its my own Sheer Fatigue. “I Cannot Be // Myself Now // the Propensity
// but to See.” A Structure: Frail, Dusting
and Handsome. Or: Appalled,
like a Pigeon, by the State, of this Bathroom.
And just as it Haunts: the Narrative of Sublime Indifference, Constantly
Vying for your Flippant Disregard.--------------àDoodling, the Body Searches for its own somewhat Foreign and Reversed Image,
Jams its Finger, Against the Wall, Reverts into Itself and into the Dark: the Terror of a Solitary Life as
Assailant. The City is that Phone Call
that never Comes, the Light of Morning, its Mistress. My Reflection in the Window of the EL teaches
an everyday Magic, Collapse:----------------àI Too can be somewhat Hidden. Subjects Tackle Meaning so we can Fake Intellectual Winning. The Portrait of
a Body Reiterating its Capture of the Portrait.
If Daily in the Morning, only Love can Grow from the Repetition of
Rehearsing this Song: You are the only Apple that Tittles what my Teeths do Need.
The Memory of Snow packed into the half-opened Doors of Cars, Lake Shore
Drive, 2011. And Something then, about
that Ghost, in the Farmhouse, New Hampshire, 2006. The Delicate Act of Wrapping the Fist’s Fingers
before we drop to box. First
Objecting, then Observing, an Embrace, Violent yet Fatherly, as if, Wrapping an
Entire History of Blood and Struggle, where a Fold Orders The Fall to Fold. The
Aversion to another Person’s Dream. The howrel in the Pigeon’s Pinched
Eyes. It takes a Murder to end the everyday Rue. There is Nothing Feeble about this: all
Movements, in Objects or Ideas, can be made Visible, irredeemably Visceral. Hence: the Rejection of the
Cautionary Navigation, i.e. Hell-Bent
on getting from Point A to Point B, as Quickly as Dashed and stat.
There is a Romance that will End, through a Casual Act, boxed into, is the Case and That. But
Baby-Girl: all things in the End, Destroy us Passively; and I fucking Believe this, which is so Silly, as it Carries me far-far Away
