Death and Disappearance

Everything ends. I felt myself silent, completely awake and responsive to the myriad worlds. I felt people move through me. I feel up to something bigger than me. Maybe as big as a house. A marvelous turning takes place in the base of my being, or my spine. I’m working on dying and disappearing. By that I mean I am working very hard at listening and being responsible for something. I am not wrong for crying anywhere. No one has known me my whole life but me. Geometrically speaking, all that two people can do is come together and apart. I am very clear that I am not you. I am I. I can only be exactly who I am. I saw **** and **** and **** and **** and met **** who seems to be a little autistic. I felt quiet and extremely grounded in myself. Completely okay with being perceived solo. A solo is the hardest form because you can only hide in yourself, and so from yourself. I read Wittgenstein in Brooklyn Heights. I considered star-67 calling **** and didn’t ask anyone’s opinion about it. I went to the noise show and got two CDs. I saw so many people today. None of them were you and none of them were me. Just gravity and potential. In my body and the world. I like my house of a body. The many rooms of my consciousness. I stand on a balcony as I wait for the G train. 

Nublu Classic

Everything is an experiment. There is nothing that is not an experiment. I ate eggs and spinach for dinner––that was an experiment. 

Spectral forms coalesce and dissolve on corners of avenues, and squares, and streets. I saw myself everywhere as a way of seeing you. Fourteen people sit on chairs inside an only-sometimes room. 

You changed. Clothes. I took my medicine. Holding a green bag.

“I come here to write,” I think. As I love a friend I hate the words I’ve inherited. I resent the forms and styles that make my age. I long for something pure and simple. I don’t want and, just marks upon. 

I am going to jump into the lake because I need to learn about myself. Myself in the lake is one of infinitely many selves and I figure I must start somewhere. I am seeing you everywhere. I am souring on truth. Danger. I am going to kill myself by jumping in the lake. There is no know, only knew. I sigh as I write this. I eliminate the medicine. I don’t know how to spell in the lake. The distances between intention and action are multiple. Not plural. Multiple. And moving. I am going to jump into multiple lakes. I am moving as I write this. “I am unmoored,” I felt. There is no know, only knew. I will only ever be a soluble substance in this milky blue world. “She is breathing,” you think. Everyone is looking toward the surface. 

A trumpet player blows up. All that hot air. 

When I use my eyes to write I become a house. 

My high school senior quote was: Barn’s burnt down, now I can see the moon. A Mizuta Masahide quote. I don’t even remember where I found it. Some things are only ever appearing before your particular eyes. Like these marks. 

There is no know, only knew. A trumpet player with a wife wears a snap-button cardigan and ankle-high Nike sneakers. I am writing yet. She breathes as air breathes. I peel off mid-stream red. The trumpet player’s wife waits with solemnity in their burning house. An entire city disintegrates. We live and die everyday. We’re not ready to show you. I don’t know if you deserve it. 

There is no know, only knew. I worry it may be a symptom of dementia, or insanity, to see a face in a face. To wish for presence amidst all this tumbling absence. My hands caress the map. “Do not confuse the map for the terrain,” the female monk says. She sees me with actual eyes as I try my very best to sit still. 

-

I don’t want you anymore

I’m still in love with you anymore

I’m trying a new approach anymore

I don’t am in psychoanalysis anymore

You work a probably-lovely job anymore

I find you in one moment anymore

In one moment I want you in no moments

I take your picture

We experiment with Each Other. 

Souring on victory

 Everything is everywhere an email a koan a fingernail an iPhone the future a pube some piles or puddles no money great clothes no sleep good drugs some fish and eggs bad world good time new love some dance a plan rough draft strong feet loud songs long hair far off no mom no dad so scared or glad not sure and broke but you in time and art and light so hope for us close now or when we touch you me you all night to day a love is thus and so for words to go push fast and slow but time is light we know a bit of this

of this

of this 

of this

of this 

of this

Poem for Polly Jean

A slant for a song, a four-sided sound
A very strange woman, a real-life siren
A desolation as big as the sun, a loneliness for a building.
Replete like wet earth
Saturated for better with worse.
Her world. 

Limning Dance : Experiment I

Laying on the floor the body of a world 
Like a used placenta disposable in the moment of its use
Slightly distended you lay
You you you unconcerned with movement
Movement finds toes and outside of hands
The space outside of limbs moves and suddenly the world moves 
Forces very far stir me until my head tips back and I begin traveling toward you
An entire world travels through me as I travel toward you
Splitting atoms burn the edges 
Wrought for you
Wrought of you
My heels move my pelvis which is my stomach which is my fists which are my face 
You reach the point in time where you must lift your world to your face
I don’t know if I should be writing in the first or second person
You turn and rock into your face
You are a rock star in this light
You tire of your life and fall to the ground in an atonal state of surrender
Green plants are scraped by wintery gusts of wind
Like them you writhe and maneuver until absence becomes merely a line
You rise to all fours traveling contralaterally in an asynchronous, short-lived cadence
Geometrically confused you know you are human yet lizard you feel
You laugh silently as you fall to your knees in a slippery puddle of quantity
Your hand finds quality inside your groin digging to peel yourself open to the lens
Sitting with repose in mind your face becomes a line 
You massage your groin until a circle appears
Your legs become bicycles you stand upon as you find a way to balance on this tipping surface
Buoyancy is everywhere
The earth tips in your favor
Your favor is up and down these days
As if traveling through a revolving door made of jello you escape space
Falling to lower air 
You return to scraping via faraway force
Reaching your left hand to your left ankle 
Holding as if clarity could be permanent
Loss of meaning is epic in your body
Fold your laundry and place it on the floor as you take a shower
You’re pointing toward a slippage that causing our creaking boat to tumble down down down (A futile sailor trying to save the ship)
“We should mutiny more often,” you think. And by mutiny I mean hang out.
But you do dance amid the wreckage in this haunted sunken ship 

Living aquatically is never easy but in such conditions you find out how flexible your back really is
How strong your front can be
How dying you can truly be
How do you die? 



How do you die in this light?
How do you remember how to die?
Repeat
Repeat
Cause yourself to transgress
No progress
No digress
Being dying is never easy but I am not an easygoing person
Dancing dying is strenuous but I am committed to this boat
I am committed to being a ghost
I am committed to you knowing the cause of the wreck
I am the shipwreck and the tragedy you live in 
We reside, descend, or transport
And you just watch
You are the lens 
The only thing I had time to think about saving was my typewriter
It was just down down down
No time
Water everywhere starting at the feet
Typewriter and camera 
Music played 
As we went down 
I knew it would happen
I knew the descent would shape me
To survive I repeat
As if clarity could be permanent
I motorize my memory to reverse the descent
I’m deadening to myself as we decant
The boat that was life is now submerged in a viscosity without names an intelligent artifice
The ocean
And I knew
All along I knew
To lament time’s pigment I hold my back in my hands
As if to remind myself where the past is
Life underwater isn’t all it’s cracked out to be
I sometimes miss the weight of air
I sometimes mess the weight of you
The velocity of a fresh and crunchy salad whirling through my body
These days time is very wavering
Sift and thrift through the space until you find something to point to
It could be your calf or your finger
Or a sun-drenched bench 
Or an upside-down umbrella
Or a small poodle dog escaping your leash
Or a footpath full of epsom salts
Or a yoga teacher you want to fuck
Or a trajectory across a diagonally shaped room
Or a spinning pole surrounded by mirrors and you
Or a heap of infected birds their dead bodies collecting in your hands
Or an entire body of water with a new name traveling through 
Or a cordoned-off region of your house
Or a broken hospital bed 
Or a basin for catching mosquitoes 
Or a wicker basket
Or a corpse in a wicker casket
Or the sand between the fibers
Or the loam gathering in your joints, groaning
Or the death in your body 
Or the dying we create together in a coffee shop
Or a digital place we store ourselves
Or the waste from a botched surgery 
Or a beam of light traveling through subterranean latitudes
Or the deep sea divers’ letters home
Or the twisted bed where you lost track of your face
Or you just want it to end.

Alit

In a darkened vestibule you used your flashlight to find the door handle. I looked out a windowed door at a figure approaching. This wallpapering suits you. And I can see your paintings! You look so beautiful in this light. Their light again. My hands in your canine hair, through all your fights and battles. Everything that happens exists for us to look back on. To become something to look back on, hotly. No mistakes. 

The Particular Feeling

 Lay bare the laying bare of it all
The flattening landscapes of it all
The into my eyes of it all 
The winnowing pages that make up a life of it all
House the moments of it all
This reality being of it all
The me because of you of it all
Our being but nodes embedded in an infinite web of causes and conditions of it all 
The infinite web being this infinite web of it all
The Deborah Hay of it all!
The deleted apps of it all
Unburdened by the veracity of it all
The shards of myself falling to the fake-wood floor of it all 
Growing tired of it all
The endless birthday of it all
The rarity of it all
The predictive text of it all
The finance bros dictating texts on the train of it all
The modern dance of it all
The modern dancers of it all
A world becoming specific of it all
Surely not of it all
When Merce Cunningham said, “There’s nothing abstract about this technique. Because it happens in human beings. As soon as it happens in human bodies, there is nothing abstract about it.” When he said that, I felt that.