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.