Elsewhere

The way out is (Brooklyn. Circles, a willow tree. She
handed you a leaf or a boxed gaze; a kiss in the middle
of the street. The way out is the way in. Please hold.
We’re all a little broken these days. I said hold still. “And
then I decided to flow with it and that was that.” Things
are all fresh for the beginner. There is no past to reconcile
with the future; nothing yet to remember; “Nostalgia”
is still a concept. “I am trying to break your heart” is
not a common introduction—although more than
likely accurate. Circles, again for the first time. The way
out is the way in. Moriches Inlet, Fire Island. Isolation.
The “Other” is more and more out of reach more
beyond this edge of beach—only ocean for thousands
of miles. She is only ocean; thousands of miles of
unfathomable awe. Circles would prove inadequate.
“Now” seems to be only a matter of how long you can
hold—restraint as opposed to patience. A slow blood-
letting-like desire. The beginner doesn’t yet know—you will
never regain the rush of that initial anticipation. The way out
is the way in. To explain it to you would be near
impossible. “Concept” never being as real or full as
“Experience.” “Explanation,” in a still, slow way
imparts what some mistake for “Knowledge.” Circles,
the willow tree. That first kiss she lent you was nothing
like when you laid down in the surf and let the ocean
surround you, but the sensation at your core was
selfsame. The way out is the way in. The beginner does not
yet know that if she is “something to get into,” she will be
“something to get out of.” As of this moment, you are ready
for what you believe to be everything; the thought that
there is more—unimaginably more—has yet to occur.
The rustle of beach grass anchoring dunes. The
rhythmic crash of each wave reshaping the coast over
and over. Morning. Over and over it’s morning. Circles,
slack water.) the way in.

Knack (With Peter)

I guess all I want is

for you to furl what's 

easy.

Dear Trouble,

You're worth a

thousand impendings.

Despite all the ugly

fragments the whole

might still be worth

finding out.

The bell's seed haunts

our rubble.

It's best we sigh

and call it a light.

Just Burn It (With Peter)

I do have

some ethics,

however small

or deeply buried

they may be.

Amoeba guilt.  What is

that? The righteous dead.

We all know that God

is in the shemales, 

and other hot messes.

He said sulking

will get you out of 

everything,

except yourself.

It's like an erection at an inopportune moment (With Peter)

It's actually a huge head-fuck 

just to be here.

Shoddily resurrected pennants,

or was it penance, small dosed

 chances at forgiveness

slick the vantage point

that sharpens 

itself on memory.

Sifting each experience

into one more

failed attempt at meaning.

Dave said he was hurtin'

for cash.

Austin said he was late

because he had  a fucked up life.

Ludis said he wasn't afraid

of shit.

But these things, I tell you, 

have lost the ability to situate

themselves.

They are dark markers.

Knives in the medicine.

Sort of like when Chris said

he either wanted you

or another shot of whiskey, 

he wasn't sure,

so you gave him whiskey.

The Silence Hook (with Peter)

Offer your fist to face 

the act whose song

knows a featureless limit.

He's going home with her

anyway.

Desire walks an unharmed

fame.  He scribbles

foundations of gauze

under each footfall, the

cushion is nothing--

if not pathetic.

He makes that look and 

the wound scurries away

into what it is to strike

a note on something bleak.

The Fold

A gesture
she begins
distance
quietly

We are soft
in our decay
instead of letting go
her hands
disintegrate

She leaves me
with longing
and cold defeat

I waft between
feeling stolen
and the romantic memory
I’ve crafted to exalt her

Then there’s annihilation

A meteorite collides
I think from nowhere
but its trajectory
had all my points
as if each
of my arbitrary motions
were isocline

Had I a more intimate
knowledge of physics
I would have seen it coming

I would have not only felt
a quiver in her affection
but also its wanderlust

Blindsided
the pain comes now
in waves
through my neck
chest
stomach
doubling me

As if the extraction
of one heart from another
were as natural
as neutral
as math

Echo—for Lyn Hejinian

let it not be destroyed
by the passage of time

42° N 53’, 78° W 53’—Buffalo. our bones welcome
your bones. the red wire is positive, will produce sound
—registers in your ear after you understand location. inertia.
a desire to describe environment at the level of cell vibration
and the sterility of ash. grammars are codified when “the”
way of speaking is threatened. how often does it sun over there,
and over there, when it is raining here? when you are “in”
the moment it is hard to imagine that there are others. remember
the shrapnel—the beautiful mosaic it made in your legs, shards
of blood that streamed to coalesce at your feet. it’s the way she holds
her head, averted towards the ground. was it then you realized
you would live always in the wake of an “other’s” choices?
30° N 07’, 89° W 93’on a bayou wall in New Orleans—
live like you mean it.
somewhere between the molten elevator door and
the blasted-out window
I chose against burning. the white wire is negative, will produce silence
—registers in your gut before you understand. she exists as an entity
to be taken from. when does thick thin? falling apart at the seam as
opposed to sudden rupture. it has capsized against your idea of
happiness. his claim was that everything was explainable through
an equation. today is the day after you killed me. my bones,
diaphanous, move through walls, under fingernails and into
your constant memory.