Deleuze (VIII)
the house that looks
like language—the words
are stranger than
the space they occupy
though they lengthen
like needles they do not
ease the anaesthesia
the pain of being—
painless like a bee
its stinger ejected
& excised from its body
it has lost its point—
and opened the window
and crawled to the ledge
and stared at the height
that is a reflex depth
a wink at the artifice
of surface and the moment
that does not exist
are libraries whose
tangular volumes circulate
meanings that are always on loan
I want to see your juvenilia
innocence is speed/ expedience kills
hands and I hand you a sense of touch
and hand on hand/ also in which a hand
holds a pen/ and is the instrument
of all senses blocked out/ the stage
before you black out/ the sublime is not/
of the text, letters of use and trust
accustomed/ beyond the fetters of the fixed/
the rosy-fingered pathos leads you out
of hell, of text/ into the neck of the
next time/ stands time/ hand in hand/ and
this is only a test
the processing of information between
your senses and mind
poetry is the expression of ideas
in a non-paralytic environment
the clown holds a candle and is made
a saint/ violins (stradi vari) crossdress
the ears are behind the eyes/ ask Icarus
first imagine nothing
and hit the thrusters/ there
whose own light/ in light
this swell of darkness/ settled
even the act of raising my left arm,
shifting the sleeve of my wrist
so that my wristwatch is exposed
is enough to paralyze me without
even seeing the face of the watch,
or the second hand like a moustache
traces a coil that is motile,
first imagine:/ a pulse, a plodding/
applaud a plot where nothing was
left
And sit in it to move you to
Retract your statement
That I am an abstract
Painting waiting to be burned
I’m attracted to magnets
Belly buttons to what they
Signify damned if I know
Damned if you don’t
Split the difference
And I fill the void
But who’s counting
The surprises
Stay down on the planet a while
There’s the imprint of a leaf
On the wall where the paint’s chipped
You’re grinning like a pair
Of coat hangers and when
The smoke hit the only
Thing I forgot to do
Was wink
The Attempter
Somebody holed up in your arms
or made equal to what is nothing
like a body held between tension
wires to someone a kind communication
of a kind, a formal variant sinks its
teeth in to song that holds out promise
to be true because there is never enough
likeness to restrain the repetition of
the past as it pets itself connects
in conversation and snips out the liver,
seed of passion, let her eagles rip
adjust his luck to the tempted gush
whose life is it anyway to devour
this commemoration of what hasn’t
been to what might never be repeated
like night jealous in welcoming chooses
stuff out of which and Michelangelo
a drawing out in coming in now risen
a hemicycle across the prints in silence
suctioned out of dub, bled less to expect
if a zone then a lens still not hearing as one
everything that is not a proper dome cannot be
a mausoleum likely tanned in Masonic garish
as if the moon needed any number of garages
each Egyptian entombed in ionic exhumed
by neoclassical wedding cake columns
to coincide, to knock at the gallery of your head
that barricades as it ladders the inside of the
inside, the starlings turn inside the turning,
with each minor beat articulate a swarm
of thoughts no different really from leafless
branches that could be quills but anxiously
the sky is not paper so writing amplest why
tamped imaginings clue din to sonic cliffs
II.
Something I could have left myself the honor
of saying lets go of itself, the stealth of
the self, this is a detective agency where
the action is bent on tracing and tailing
those red lights, targeting a getaway
to possible brains afflict the either of
like minds attract like minds and yours
shelved under Keatonesque, the baffled
muse becomes you, shifter, without thinking
there is no dive in fire, Ovid vide
because these lines are as kindling things
that comb and come uncouple trust
lust in the Latin tongue annotates its braids
with diet ammo—alloy veto em
a code for eucalyptus lips, a flair for
hiding eggs in sense, an ode to Anubis
a diced phenomenon, elegy for baggage the
grooveless improviso for stutterers ahead of
each couplet its own trompe l'oeil
talisman, phonemes et al do bleed
emotions swept as bay windows curve
acoustic space and hats over our ears
but still talking, slightly ill and chalky
a taste for anonymous segue though
if sound is not following the thread through
then what could have come collapses
by tracking out the map’s trick circle
that opens clout from clouds disarranged
among cumulus sounds busted and choppy
to abbreviate the status of verbs pulled
at eclipse, to think out within each stet the
next word out of your mouth outlandishly
oval, relic luster in a coffered eye dim
caves in at the margin to wattages within