Will, you remember, Stephanie? A will from the past,
We’re thinking you heard its once-dying poet
Who cradled the face sorrow brings to bed,
Someone who could listen to bluegrass and lose it.
The wind smudging a porch. That sort of will.
We’re scared. / Good night to expose no non-accident or two that don’t matter, will made tactical
As we circumvent exchange elements; we’re remaking spatial morality into chance agency,
No view, no dash, no longer having to know.
Rainy Sundays we break for the Beijing Olympics observed or imagined on the ceiling. Rationed atheism, a main event floating free, secret ballots cross wires in codes of conduct. Glue is the open door, the color of bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another.
In Japan they have I-novels, sticky variations on Euro-American models. The I-novel cantilevers inside without. A flood of phone calls offers ‘relationships.’ No time for that.
The I is like everyone else, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights for having interesting things to read, packing up old love notes, crayoning hearts and drunken smiley faces, pledging boundless love.
Of course the I-novel is heavy. The I spent decades as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on ‘live data.’ Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals of pulverized dots — big, jaunty shapes that swaddle their inner pooch, ducking your punch and closing the distance.
Someday all this will be yours. A few
City blocks that lean socialist, an oblique, neat,
Untapped atmosphere w/ corners of slovenly
Housekeeping and, worse, earnest alignment,
Reading strewn everywhere and living
Chronologically simulate the senses; these new scents
Went in circles as tho undressing.. sidestepping
Into some prowess of floating un uniquely, unquietly, new —