dialect of a balancing act

Elsewhere

2009-08-28T17:01:00.006-04:00

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)

2009-05-07T03:26:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-05-07T03:22:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-05-07T02:41:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-05-07T02:36:00.001-04:00

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

2009-03-31T00:13:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-19T03:20:00.003-04:00

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.

Too soon?

2008-08-13T08:29:00.001-04:00

An ocean's kicked up

Stormed into your favorite

shared space of early afternoon

Greyhounds

toss speech back forth clips

loaded pries at what was once

friendship

I'm so sorry is swallowed

spurned

search out forgive in

should have stopped, but kept going

and an unflinching desire to marry

her unpenitent face with asphalt

Trigger

2008-07-05T05:41:00.004-04:00

First
summer solstice
I find her

all dimples and particular
glances across
moseying between bar stool
and keen detail for storytell

in some small flash of flustered
I let her walk away
without plan

something lighter—less intention
more serendipitous
I find her sky-blue
on something dark and crowded

dance into it with a sense

abandon and maybe enough
vodka to float someone less
historied down the East River

days—two, three, four
and we’re all kisses and smiles
forgetting that readiness is

tiptoeing around each other’s
broken

Wife

2008-06-01T13:55:00.003-04:00

I am trying to see
the third side to the story

all I can think
when she would
fist me
she would get
half an arm’s length
deep

I couldn’t get enough
Kawasaki grease and all

so you can see
why I might be distracted

from the fact that we
are not

everything ersatz

two weeks gone
I find us on edge

of her couch
fleecing smile

about face of
my silenced heart

sit rusting
barely fit speech

when she says she wants
not always
but in this moment

I wait
glean some sweat

grab her by the hair and give in

after
I have worn her
I am all haze
night-morning sleepless

I want to break

open
her skin
feel each muscle
underneath
what it was formed for

gray shades grey

2008-05-01T14:38:00.000-04:00

so I amputate, with intent
it grows
back smoke, permeates to nothing faster.
a thought I test
before its vanquish

her skinny love seems so
fragile
I’ve become afraid to touch
it for fear of breaking constant,
pulling muscle, or—god forbid, rive
a tendon and cause permanent damage;
I’ve become afraid of resting living weight
on her limb.

left hook

2008-04-29T12:36:00.002-04:00

you weren't looking and now who's to say what you've found;
crushed under protocol and cracking wheat (give us this day)
the heavy is sweet but too much of not enough;
listless seeps through brooklyn by day, the night shallow,
disappearing in flits through sleep (forgive us our trespasses) less;
your memory shifting weight throws you

(and those who trespass against us)
across the ring, you are dazed and dizzying in the corner,
spinning up from down and spitting blood