This consciousness I inhabit
is not a sentence I can write
no way to replicate this activity
the various intuitive processes
that define me and conspire
to fill out my frame
all of it unfolding in layers
flashes of a momentary face
that are not traceable
using whatever array
are not locations or a hierarchy
of intellectual certainty
not an intentional motion
but is the residue of a field
that I am
open to the moment itself
I am my disposition
fueled by the experiences I retain
and those I do not
in equal measure
am a measure
a shaping an inclination
slanting toward a perfect insurrection
projected from the interior
of the apparatus I have assembled
which is the support structure
for my continuance
as a site of apprehension
and is also the consequence of it
the predictable outcome
of unpredictable methodology.
There is a room at the center of my silence
a necessary shelter.
I go into it
and eat up all the words that follow me down
until it is deep night all around
a darkness so bright
the way evening makes us feel the fading light.
The entire system trends toward failure
a series of flaws
fractured elements that fracture further
that again and again
returns a field of errors.
The substance of my soul
is not something I can say
though it is a tool
is one operational aesthetic
a spire erected on the plains of a desolate planet
drawing others to it
so as to encourage sharing
our inarticulate catastrophe mechanisms
an organic bloom
within vehicles that degrade
moment by moment
a rose in the chest an endless unfolding
which fades as we hold it.
My thinking about the dawn
fades to nothing.
My individual memories
disappear are gone.
It is only a stream
a constant burn
that sears a flare across the retina of the heart
deep visual stain
the emotional optics of our progression
through a torrent of experience
of leavings and loss
of what we choose to build ourselves out of
and what chooses us despite our efforts
the result of productive accidents.
I imagine myself accelerated
beyond this talking and beyond
the violence of intention
toward some bliss
an opening of perception.
I am not myself in this private space
but am instead a swell of chaos
because there is no name for this location
which is everything to me
and useless against the brutal weather.
But art is the ground you find
the place you stand
when you come back and spread
your radiant infective protocols.
I am a terminal grasping posture
in love with this human project
and all the people I see
the ten thousand things
everything you can point to
and the connections between them all
the patterns of rhythmic thinking
barreling ahead of our simple animal living
and animal death.
I am invested in this landscape
my invisible nature
so as to ensure persistence
a more durable harmonics.
The brain wants to populate the poetry
with specific images
moments from time
or the physical renderings of spiritual energy
but this poetry won’t let the intellect in
wants to remain a dialogue
with the invisible
one powerful and concussive utterance
since we are already too infested
with the visible
are overcome with objects
which are themselves a distraction
are powerful only in their fading
There is no name for what we hear:
a cluster of stems held tight
by the neck of the vase
which prevents them from descending
into the water contained out of reach.