statement ("I hope to"):
the overlap of words to things, how they make and mask
"correctness" and its lack--
holes in and draw ink bridges over the treasure maps of
ideas and concepts as 'not-things'--
the displacing effect of naming as though we each look
outward, command centers bent on calling others "others",
reserving "self" for pocket values--
Sovereign Nations, Carnal States, Kam Shapiro says
of Nietzsche, "… he describes perception as a series of
metaphors. Not only consciousness but experience in all
its forms involves 'lying,' that is, metaphor or condensation
… 'This same compulsion exists in the sense activities
that support reason--by simplification, coarsening, emphasizing,
and elaborating, upon which all recognition, all
ability to make oneself intelligible rests.' Furthermore,
these different registers interpenetrate; the habits of
one register influence those of another. Nietzsche thus
describes the body as a set of overlapping forces out
of which emerges a highly conditioned regularity … Stable
compositions signify not equilibrium but tension and inequality
among different quanta [36-37].
and slash our quantified cloaks, our sleek rain slickers,
until beneath such repellants, light-breathing skin
sweats & reaches, unbound & anxious-forgotten bones
interlace with human fingers seeking hopeful illogicality-blank
balance fades, giving way to shifting favor and readerly
revisions in unfixed durations.
My heart ends
on the conclusion
of a third-degree narrative, or one
body holds above this compass pot,
lurching hot. Does honesty know
the genre of the spoken? You were
asked to move, mobile person. Stare
elsewhere, poppy man. Vision layered
in cassock and mildew roots penetrates
a stone's interior. Retreat to mountains
on their sides, rotating into boulders--
Your hand-sewn sack nudges in
predictable fashion; its rocky contents
pour a fluid swarm upon the ground's
inhabitants. My properties say, Give
it up, mapmaker. I am cocooned in
just one manuscript's architecture by
which to work the symbiotic passing.
Idle paradise distills behind the curtain.
Where no paradise occurs, we stand in
the bar of cuban-rolled incense. In
the remains, ashes conspire. They
line the aisles in necessary boots of
a nation cut off by distance in weather,
a sheet of rain as our slivered disguise.
A smudge clings to soles of sequestered
citizens in strangulated nights, smuggling
forth remnants of godmatter in custody.
The tabletop could not be more real.
More than reel repeating.
No ancient beetle reveals the hieroglyphs
of tomorrow's promised land. I go back
to first clues instead of onward bound
for the straw-colored evening sun. I do
not discount but cannot unhand the deed
while returning incompletely.